


The Breaking

by heartofstanding



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Execution, F/M, Gen, Heads are gonna roll, Not Shakespeare Compliant, Rebellion, it's that kind of fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28361283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: In the event of Richard II's deposition, he and his closest allies made a plan to see him restored and his usurper punished. It was meant to occur on the Feast of the Epiphany.It failed miserably.
Relationships: Constance of York/Thomas Despenser, Edward 2nd Duke of York | Duke of Aumerle & Richard II of England, Elizabeth of Lancaster/John Holland Earl of Huntington, Henry IV of England & Henry V of England, Henry V of England & Richard II of England
Comments: 10
Kudos: 4
Collections: Histories Ficathon XI





	1. I: King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nannerlinthejungle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannerlinthejungle/gifts).



> Obviously, I got super excited about a prompt to write about the Epiphany Rising. ;)
> 
> In order to keep this story relatively succinct, the fic focuses on the deposed Richard II, three of the five rebel lords, the newly crowned Henry IV and his eldest son. It could have easily been so much longer and involved so many more people – there are so many stories, details, personalities, POVs and events that I’m sad to say are missing from this. 
> 
> I’ve tried my best to refer to each character by whatever name or title each POV character would have used for them, e.g. Edward, Duke of Aumerle and Earl of Rutland refers to himself as “Edward” but other characters think of him as “Aumerle” until he loses that title and becomes “Rutland”, Henry thinks of his son as “Harry” though everyone else calls him “Hal”. One exception Henry IV, who should be “Hereford” (and some characters refer to him in dialogue as “Hereford” because they refuse to accept his kingship) until he is crowned. Two more are Thomas Despenser, Earl of Gloucester (until he loses the title) and Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, who are referred to as Despenser and Woodstock, to try and make things easiest for me. Hopefully, this isn’t too confusing.

**Dublin, Ireland, July 1399**

Richard laid his hands flat on the table in an attempt to say to himself: _this is solid, this is real and so you are real._ The signet ring on his finger felt as if it had increased a hundredfold in weight and his body seemed insubstantial. He had the sensation that if he were wearing the crown and holding the orb and sceptre, he would end up on the floor, gazing up at the trappings of kingship hung in the air above him that he could no longer hold. Still, the signet ring did not slip from his finger.

When he raised his head, he struggled to meet the eyes of his friends. Exeter, his half-brother whom he had loved and hated in turns, held a knife in his hands, turning it over and over. Aumerle, the man who Richard called _brother_ because he could not think of a word to explain the hold Aumerle held on his heart, was silent, his eyes unreadable. Richard’s nephew Surrey was pale and continuously lifting his cup to his mouth without drinking. Salisbury and Despenser, his cousins, had their heads bent over dispatches and reports that gave them too little news.

‘I still say we use the boy,’ Exeter said.

Aumerle shifted in his seat, Surrey’s eyes lifted from his cup to Exeter then back to Richard. Richard swallowed, feeling sick.

‘We have his _son,_ ’ Exeter said. ‘His eldest son. That has got to be good for something. You took him for a reason, Richard, and that was reason to safeguard Hereford’s behaviour. Now, Hereford has _invaded_ – he threatens _you_ , thinks to put a leash on you or worse, and yet you hesitate from using the boy to put a leash on him?’

‘He’s thirteen,’ Despenser said.

No, Richard thought, not yet. Hal would be thirteen in September. And yes, he had taken Hal into his household to serve as a surety for Henry to bide by the terms of his exile but it didn’t matter _now._

‘Younger have been used for the same purpose.’

‘I already made my will clear,’ Richard said. ‘The boy is not to be touched.’

He could not name the boy _Hal_ , knew if he did Exeter would accuse him – rightly – of being sentimental enough to play into Henry’s hands. But he could not shake off the memory of Hal’s eyes staring back at him, full of angry tears, as he learnt that his father had returned, nor the sound of Hal’s knees sitting the floor as he knelt in true submission.

No. Hal was not to be involved in this, he was not to be used. The thought of threatening his life if Henry did not retreat and promise obedience, made Richard feel sick. He imagined an axe or sword above the kneeling boy’s head, ready to swing down and sever head from body while he and Henry watched, refusing to call each other’s bluff, and shuddered.

Despenser and Aumerle were speaking, discussing, of all things, the ships and how they would transport their troops. Richard laid a finger against the signet ring, felt the cool gold. Had they not already discussed this?

‘You realise, of course,’ he said, ‘that for all our plans, it could still go ill?’

Surrey paled further.

‘If you are captured?’ Salisbury said.

Aumerle opened his mouth, speaking over Exeter. ‘So we make a plan in case the worst should happen?’

Richard shuddered. _The worst._ If he were captured, he would die. No deposed king lived very long. Edward II had lived nine months and his throne had held his beloved and loving son. Henry did not love Richard, he would not hold Richard’s life dear – a month or two, enough that it did not seem like wanton murder.

‘Yes,’ Richard said.

If these were any other men, they would hasten to reassure him that it was impossible, that the heavens would open up and whole forests march to his defence before a traitor could hold the _true king_ captive. Nothing of the sort had happened twelve years ago when Robert de Vere had been forced into exile and Richard had been made to bend to the Appellants’ rule.

‘And if Hereford should seek to make himself king too,’ Richard said. ‘And seek revenge on those who are loyal to me.’

‘We rebel,’ Surrey said at once. ‘We pull him down from the throne, make him humble himself before you. The country will cry out for rebellion and we will give it to them.’

He spoke so earnestly and passionately that everyone around the table was nodding their agreement. Richard’s smile became true for a brief moment. Yes, he thought, England will not suffer a usurper. Its people would regret Henry’s rule, wished they understood that an anointed king was chosen by God to rule. Even those lending their support to Henry would come to wish they had not sunk to treason.

‘We will give Hereford the traitor’s death,’ Exeter said. ‘We will hang him, cut his guts open before his eyes and put his head on a pike, send his quartered body around the country to be food for crows.’

Aumerle swallowed, his face contracting as if he tasted vomit.

‘We must remember to be merciful,’ Aumerle said.

‘His head will be enough,’ Surrey said.

‘Not just his,’ Richard said. ‘Those who supported him as well. I will not have another rebellion.’

‘His son may inherit his father’s complaints and treason,’ Exeter said.

Richard shook his head. He did not believe it of Hal – not yet, at least. For whatever reason, Hal loved him and would be loyal and Richard would do his best to retain that love. He might fail, as he had failed with Mowbray, but for now, he held it and could not fathom hurting Hal as an assurance against the possibility of far-off treason.

Salisbury was silent for a long moment and Exeter opened his mouth as if to speak – to _doubt_ – but Surrey spoke first.

‘You mean not to attaint the line? Or undo the pardon of his ancestor? To let the boy have all that land, all that money?’

‘Hal is loyal.’

Richard pushed himself to his feet. The air in the room felt too stuffy. He felt as if he had made some mistake but no one seemed to be suggesting it. The signet ring still felt unnaturally heavy though his hands moved freely.

*

The boy – Hal – was in the castle courtyard playing some game with the dogs. Sometimes he would chase them, sometimes they would chase him. He moved with the awkward grace of a colt, his long legs sometimes moving before the rest of his body could catch up. Richard watched him in silence, trying to determine what others saw when they looked at Hal. A gawky adolescent, a traitor’s son.

Try as he might, Richard could not see Henry in him. Hal looked like his mother – dark hair, dark eyes, full lips – and was already as tall as Henry and thin as a reed. He was quick and clever, solemn but sweet-natured in spite of everything. Richard saw it when he spoke of his siblings or played with Isabelle. And he knew Hal loved him with all the innocence of a child, unquestioning and unceasing.

Of course, he had been upset – when his grandfather died, when Richard took the duchy of Lancaster into his own hands, when Henry returned – but the boy was resilient. Some anxiety would, undoubtedly, remain but he was young. He would recover.

Hal’s head turned, he saw Richard and came trotting over to kneel on the grass, eyes on the ground and neck bared. Again, Richard saw an axe hovering over the boy’s vulnerable nape. He pulled Hal to his feet, ungentle in his haste, and saw Hal’s eyes go wide.

‘It’s alright,’ he said quickly. ‘I was—’

He stopped, unsure of how to explain his fear without making the boy think him mad. Instead, he hugged Hal close, certain that affection would reassure him. When he drew back, holding Hal at arm’s length to examine his face, he saw Hal was still uncertain but without fear. Perhaps he would not lose that uncertainty until everything was done and his future was assured.

‘Your majesty?’ Hal said.

‘It has been decided,’ Richard said abruptly. ‘You and your cousin will remain at Trim Castle until you are sent for.’

Hal said nothing at first, his eyes closing tight. His chest rose and fell. Then he spoke.

‘I am to remain here?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And not go with you?’

The plaintive note in his voice made Richard’s heart ache. For a moment, he thought about what it would mean to take Hal with him. But he could not. There was no way of guaranteeing his safety – if they went hungry, if they were made to fight – and Henry would claim he took Hal as his hostage to torment and kill if Henry did not submit. Worse, too, would be the idea of Hal being made to choose between his father and his king.

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘You are safest here.’

‘I can fight, I want to fight – I’m not scared. I’ll fight for you.’

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘You will not. You will stay here.’

‘But—’

‘I need to know you are safe,’ Richard said. ‘And I know your heart, I know you are – loyal.’

The word tasted bitter on his tongue and he shook his head to clear, looking around the courtyard, the many-eyed walls. He had the sensation that though he could not see anyone but Hal, someone was standing at one of the windows and watching him. The dogs panted and whined, one coming up to sit on Hal’s foot, head falling back against Hal’s leg in an effort to gain the boy’s attention.

‘But you can use me against _him_ ,’ Hal said, ignoring the dog.

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘You are too dear for that.’

Hal looked away, his jaw set in a sharp line. Richard had the thought that he was willing himself not to weep.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t matter to him, anyway,’ Hal said, voice thick. ‘He already came back. He already risked me.’

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘He knows I would not harm you.’

Hal said nothing. The dog whined at his feet, paws scrabbling against the dirt. Hal’s hand fell down to rub its ears. Richard glanced around the courtyard, his skin prickling. Two gardeners were walking on the far side, their heads hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats.

‘Go on,’ Richard said. ‘Your tutor must have lessons for you.’

Hal nodded but didn’t move.

‘What if he wins?’ he said.

‘He won’t,’ Richard said. ‘No man can ever dethrone an anointed king.’

It was a lie but he hoped it would comfort Hal and put him at ease. But Hal stiffened and looked at Richard. It was an expression Richard had never seen on his face before, his eyes sharp and assessing, his mouth flat and brows brought down low.

‘If that is true,’ Hal said, ‘how was it that Edward II was deposed?’

Richard couldn’t reply. It had been him who taught Hal about Edward II in the hope he would understand why his father had been denied his inheritance.

‘I’m not a child,’ Hal said. ‘You don’t have to lie to me. I want to know the truth.’

Richard brought Hal to him again, pressed his lips against the boy’s forehead. _Ah,_ he thought, _but you are a child._

‘Richard,’ Hal said.

‘We have a plan,’ he said quietly. ‘I won’t tell you what it is – it’s best if you don’t know – but we are prepared for that. Now go, go to your lessons.’

*

Hal had gone and Richard remained. The summer heat was vanishing, the air turning cold and damp. He felt again the weight of eyes on his back, the black windows stared at him. An archer might be hidden in those shadows, the gardeners could be assassins. He turned slowly, careful not to tug his gown closer around his body and seem fearful.

At the door, Aumerle – _Edward –_ was waiting for him, though he was looking over his shoulder at Hal’s departing back. Richard touched Edward’s arm, drew his attention back to Richard. Edward smiled but it seemed pained.

‘Is he—’

‘Is he what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Edward said. ‘I was going to ask if he is alright but the answer seems rather obvious.’

‘He’s resilient,’ Richard said. ‘At least as much as I was at that age.’

‘Is that the truth or what you hope is the truth?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ Edward said.

Richard bit his tongue; he did not want to fight with Edward – not when everything else was already painful. He thought of the fight they had in January over the seizure of Lancaster’s estates, how sick and furious it had made him feel and how it lay between them still, unspoken, unresolved. But Richard could not speak of it, could not admit that Edward had been, in part, right about Hal being hurt by it.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You meant something, say it.’

Edward said nothing, only looked as if he regretted coming.

‘For God’s sake, speak!’ Richard said. ‘We may leave and never see each other again and you would stay silent?’

‘Is there any point in speaking?’ Edward said. ‘Fine. You have a tendency to see only what you wish to. To cover up any problems, any criticisms with what you _wish._ The world may break but _you_ will pretend otherwise until you are standing in the ruins.’

Richard shook his head. The words were painful, a raw wound he shied away from.

‘Then what do you suggest I do? Henry invaded, I cannot sit idly by while he takes England from me because Hal is _upset._ ’

‘I don’t know! I don’t – Henry is not an evil man.’

Richard laughed. ‘He is a traitor.’

‘Only because he was pushed to it,’ Edward said. ‘If you had let him be—’

‘Let him be to grow greater so he could rule both me and England? No. I had to act, I did what I had to do, we all did.’

‘And now we pay the price,’ Edward said, ‘for your decision.’

Richard stared at Edward. His blood was up, he could feel rushing to his face to stain it red. It wasn’t his decision alone. They all had agreed. Woodstock had to die.

‘And you say that – you who urged Woodstock’s death.’

As soon as Richard had said it, he regretted it. Edward went white and he stepped back. The air felt cold on Richard’s neck. Edward had only urged what Richard wanted and no one had foreseen the trouble Woodstock’s death had wrought. He shook his head, stretched out his hand.

‘I need you with me,’ he said. ‘I need you on my side.’

Edward sighed and stared heavenward, his face unreadable. Richard’s heart pounded painfully. Henry and his old allies had taken so much from him already. They could not have Edward as well. Richard could not be brought so low, to be so deserted – Henry could have Salisbury and Despenser and even Surrey. But not Edward.

‘You have me,’ Edward said, sounding neither happy nor unhappy as he took hold of Richard’s hand.

**Conwy Castle, August 1399**

So it was over or close to over. Richard stared at the walls, wandered through the dim passageways. It was strange. he had never seen a castle so empty, so devoid of people. He had never been so alone in all his life. All the servants bustling around, all the attendants ready to clothe him or comb his hair or hand him letters, all his knights and archers who guarded him – gone. It was as if the world had emptied, as if some force had swept in and carried everyone away, leaving Richard for the first time alone in the world. The rest of his retinue are like wandering spirits here, sometimes there, sometimes not.

But it was not true. He would go up to the top of the tower and stare eastwards until his eyes watered. Henry or Henry’s men, he thought, would come from the east – unless he would come from the south, in an effort to surprise them. There was no need. Conwy Castle was strong but they had little in terms of supplies. Bread, some dried meat, wine – and all of it rapidly vanishing.

He could not eat much. When he was with the others, he pretended it was because his _royal stomach_ objected at the stale bread and meat as hard as nails. He pretended with them all the while, making out as if this were a rather silly adventure that it would soon be happily over.

He smiled, turning his back on the east to face the setting sun. One way or another, it would be over. He would be made to submit to Henry, he would lose his crown and then he would lose his life. He knew what deposition meant. They would say, _resign your crown and you will be safe_ but his body would be decomposing by the end of the year.

Exeter and Surrey had not returned. Edward – Aumerle – had fled to Henry’s banner. Perhaps he thought it was safest. Perhaps he had seen the way the world had turned against Richard. No England crying out against a traitor – not yet. Perhaps he was only pretending to gain intelligence and use it against Henry. Perhaps he was only obeying the will of his father, the Duke of York. But perhaps Richard was being generous. Aumerle had been strange these past months.

Footsteps. His hand went to the knife on his belt but it was only Despenser, blinking in the sunlight.

‘Your majesty,’ Despenser said and made as if to bow.

 _Majesty._ Richard stepped forward, fingers wrapping around Despenser’s wrist to halt him. He shuddered at the warmth of flesh – he had been too long alone, too long untouched.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There is no point in that. Henry will be here soon.’

‘We should leave.’

‘And go where? We have no food, no money. Here, at least, we are strong enough to make Hereford come to us and then – submit.’

Despenser did not frown and say, _Salisbury said you should go to Bordeaux._ It was too late to flee now. Henry was coming. Henry had won. Richard felt suddenly very cold, despite the warm night. The sea was burning in the sunset.

‘This rebellion,’ he said, ‘you should be quick about it. I will not long survive in Henry’s hands.’

Despenser’s brow creased. He opened his mouth and then shut it. Richard squeezed his wrist again.

‘Henry does not love me,’ he said. ‘He will put me away and when he finds my shade has grown more noisome than he likes, he will bring my life to an end. There is no love to hold him back. So there will be no time to waste.’

‘We will do our best,’ Despenser said.

‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘And I will owe you all a great boon when it is done.’

‘Shall we do it on Epiphany?’ Despenser said quietly.

Richard’s lips stretched wide. To be restored to the throne on the Feast of Epiphany, the thirty-third anniversary of his birth – it would send a great sign to his enemies. Show that God’s favour rested on him. And when it was done, he would be safe at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edward II** (r. 1307-1327) was Richard II’s great-grandfather who was deposed by his wife, Isabella of France and her allies due, in part, to his dependency on his corrupt favourite, Hugh Despenser the Younger (Thomas Despenser’s great-grandfather). Richard II identified with Edward II not only as a king whose divine right to rule was not only questioned but possibly also as another queer man (Edward II’s relationships with Despenser and Piers Gaveston are widely believed to have romantic and sexual, as was Richard’s relationship with Robert de Vere (and, in fandom, Aumerle)). Amongst one of Edward II’s most controversial actions was the execution of his cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, whose titles were forfeited. After Edward’s deposition, Lancaster was posthumously pardoned and his titles and posts restored to his brother and heir, Henry – our Henry’s great-grandfather. It was believed at the time that Richard II was interested in undoing Lancaster’s pardon which would have had dire consequences for John of Gaunt and Henry IV. 
> 
> **The Appellant Crisis** was the first major political crisis of Richard II’s reign in 1387-8. The Lords Appellant sought to remove the influence of who they considered to be bad influences on Richard, including Robert de Vere and Simon Burley, his tutor. Although they maintained they were acting for Richard’s own good, the experience could not have been anything but terrifying and traumatising for Richard, who saw his own authority attacked, his friends killed or forced into exile and his own independence severely curtailed. Historians believe he was briefly deposed. Richard did manage to recover authority and, in 1397, began to seek revenge on the Lords Appellant. Two of the senior Lords, Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel and Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, stood trial with Arundel being executed (his brother, Thomas, was Archbishop of Canterbury and exiled shortly after, eventually meeting up with Henry and encouraging him to invade) and Warwick exiled. Thomas of Woodstock was arrested and imprisoned in Calais where he mysteriously died – it was and is widely believed he was murdered on Richard II’s orders. Aumerle was said to have urged his death. The other Lords Appellant were Henry IV (then only Earl of Derby – he was promoted to the dukedom of Hereford for testifying against Arundel) and Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham. 
> 
> After the failure of the Epiphany Rising, Richard reputedly took responsibility for it. However, it is hard to see how he could have had contact with the rebel lords and so I have followed Kathryn Warner’s suggestion that there was a contingency plan made between Richard and the rebel lords to rebel should Richard be captured and deposed but that Richard was not involved in the details of the planned rebellion.
> 
>  **Hal’s cousin was Humphrey of Gloucester** , the son of Thomas of Woodstock and Eleanor de Bohun, born around 1382. He was left behind in Ireland with Hal at Trim Castle but died suddenly, either in Ireland or during the return to England. It was rumoured that he’d been poisoned by Thomas Despenser but this is likely untrue. He is unnamed in this fic to avoid confusing him with Hal’s brother, Humphrey (who was later Duke of Gloucester).
> 
> Why **Aumerle defected to Henry IV** is unknown. Blind ambition and/or greed is usually credited but given his closeness to Richard – who called him “brother” and seems to have considered making him his heir – it doesn’t seem credible to me. What is more likely, imo, is that Aumerle found himself in an impossible situation – he was left in command of an army meant to defend Richard who had just fled, his own father was supporting Henry – and chose to do what was the safest thing he could do.


	2. II: Coronation

**Westminster, England, 13 October 1399**

Elizabeth danced at her brother’s coronation. It wasn’t that she was merry but that there was little else she could do. She could not refuse to dance on the basis of age, grief or lack of skill – she had won a prize for her dancing two years ago – and to stay in her place beside her husband with his face of thunder was unappealing. So she chose to dance, smiling as she whirled around, her skirts flying out in a colourful circle.

John would probably rebuke her when he could. But so what? The world and their futures were uncertain, with Richard imprisoned in the Tower and John sure Henry had more in mind than his own crowning. John was Richard’s brother and she was Henry’s so they could not help but be torn in two.

But she wanted to dance. Each turn that brought her eyes back to the dais where Henry sat with the crown on his head made her smile grow. He looked so kingly, so right for the role, with a straight back and gleaming russet hair. It was if England had been covered in black shrouds since Queen Anne died and Henry had returned from exile to tug them off and make things right. Now, Elizabeth saw a world bathed in light and breathed hope.

She knew – everyone _had_ to have known – that things couldn’t have gone on with Richard much longer. She loved him but he had turned strange when Anne died and while she might sympathise, he became impossible to read with his endless suspicions and lies and his quicksilver moods.

The music stopped. She curtseyed, her breath heaving in her chest and stepped back, her eyes going to John. He was not applauding with the others, his head bowed towards his nephew Surrey.

Another dance, this time a _carole_. She did not think of John or Henry or Richard but let herself be carried away by the music. A pity there were no prizes today, she thought, she would’ve won another. When it was over, she saw Henry smiling at her and grinned back. They were not close – he was embarrassed by her _scandalous past_ – but they did love each other in their own way.

John was less appreciative when she returned to her seat. Surrey had gone – she could not see him anywhere – and John pulled away when she went to touch his hand.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not have this.’

‘Have what?’ she said.

‘You, making a spectacle of your joy,’ he said, ‘and then coming back to me as if all was the same. My brother has lost his crown and his freedom and you _dance._ ’

‘It will not always be this way,’ she said. ‘When Henry is sure that Richard will be safe—’

‘ _Safe_? Richard won’t be safe while that traitor lives.’

His voice had risen alarmingly; she glanced around and inclined her head closer to John’s.

‘Shh. People can hear you.’

He stared at her, face pale and rigid with anger and then jerked his head away, stabbing at the roast peacock, glittering with specks of gold leaf, with his fork.

‘I am glad you are happy,’ he said, at last, ‘I was glad to hear that you had made merry when I was held captive by that – that _man_ to prevent me from returning to _my_ king and brother.’

‘What? No, I didn’t – John, you mistake me.’

‘What is there to mistake?’ John said.

‘Henry’s my brother,’ she said. ‘Of course I was glad to see him returned – to have his inheritance guaranteed as it should’ve been. But that you and he are at odds does not make me glad. I don’t like to see you suffer.’

John wasn’t listening to her. He set his knife on his plate and stood, reaching to drink deeply from his cup of wine. He ran his hand over the back of his mouth, stared at the purplish stain it left before shrugging.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Anywhere but here,’ he said.

‘You can’t leave – Henry will see it as an insult.’

‘So? He knows I am not content with this already.’

‘But you said – all of you disavowed him. You agreed to this.’

John put his hand on her shoulder, his fingers hard. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable, but not yet willing to push him away. She did love him. Or she thought she did. She had loved him thirteen, fourteen years ago when he had seemed handsome and bold amongst the sea of men who would bow and scrape to her father. It had been easy to go to bed with him, easier still to think they were in love. But now – things had changed. He had stepped away from her to become his own self. _Duke of Exeter, Earl of Huntington._ The King’s brother. And somehow, along the way, they had become less to each other.

‘Please, tell me what choice we had,’ he said. ‘I rather like my head attached to my body, don’t you?’

She went cold and shook her head. He left without saying another word. She sat unmoving for a moment and then reached for her cup of wine.

He would realise, eventually, that it was _better_ this way. Richard would be kept safe and quiet, left to heal from his griefs, and then find himself as a person, not a king. Henry would be good for England – he would the wrongs to right, heal the land.

The wine was surprisingly bitter. She put it aside and wondered if there would be more dancing.

*

Edward hoped Richard would understand. He thought Richard might – after all, the others did. Most were satisfied with the fact that Edward’s _father_ was with Henry and even Exeter, the most suspicious, had to admit it was a hard task to convince an army to fight for a king who had abandoned them. Edward didn’t tell them anything else. Nothing about the overwhelming fear eating away at him or even the doubts he had.

He loved Richard. He would’ve done anything for Richard and once he _had_ done anything. Woodstock’s arrest, Woodstock’s murder. Of course he had urged it: Richard had wanted it and everyone had known Lancaster would’ve insisted on Woodstock’s life being spared if he had been put on trial.

Edward lifted his head from his plate, saw Exeter and Surrey had gone. He would need to follow soon – not at once, they were not foolish enough to think they weren’t being watched. They had been Richard’s most loyal and dear friends. Despite himself, he found his eyes going to Henry enthroned in Richard’s place.

It was still shocking to see Henry there with the crown on his head. But he did seem to look the part – he was not remote like Richard but still somehow regal. He had been magnanimous and jovial since he returned, willing to listen, willing to right wrongs. Well, Edward thought, he wouldn’t be king for much longer.

Below Henry was another table where his four sons were sat. Richard had called Hal _resilient_ and perhaps he was – he had borne the blunted sword of mercy, Curtana, at the coronation with a placid face and now he seemed content enough, laughing with his brothers and fighting them for the best sweetmeats. They seemed so unbearably young.

It was time for Edward to go. He made his excuses to Philippa and slipped away.

*

It was a small room where they met, obviously used for storing things that were seldom used. Dust sat in thick layers and they were cramped, pressed up against old tables and broken chairs stacked on top of each other. Edward closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, while Salisbury coughed.

‘Are we missed?’ Surrey said. ‘I thought we might be.’

‘People are beginning to leave,’ Edward said. ‘I think Henry will send his sons to bed soon.’

‘The youngest looked like he was going to pass out on the table,’ Salisbury said.

Exeter made a small noise. ‘You know what Hereford means in displaying them, don’t you?’

‘That he has heirs and Richard did not,’ Surrey said. ‘Even if they’re barely out of swaddling clothes.’

‘And – if he is pulled down, there are four boys to take his place,’ Exeter said. ‘Even if they are not large enough to avenge to him yet, they will be a threat eventually.’

Edward didn’t like the sound of that. ‘They might not be. If treated well. Hal is fond of Richard.’

‘Not fond enough to object to Richard’s treatment,’ Exeter said.

The door opened. Edward bit back a groan. His sister stepped through, followed by Despenser. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Edward, waiting for him to object. He didn’t – he had long learnt that she would do what she liked and that censoring her only made her more determined. He suspected Despenser had learnt that lesson too.

‘Close the door,’ Surrey said.

Despenser shut the door.

‘Right,’ Constance said. ‘First, we need to deal with Hereford. It’s unfortunate that he was allowed to be coronated. I thought the abbey itself would collapse before it allowed a usurper to be crowned.’

‘It would’ve been much easier if it had,’ Salisbury said. ‘People _like_ him. I always thought he was a self-righteous shit.’

So far, no one was crying out for a rebellion. So far, the country had proved itself not merely willing but eager to accept a usurper on the throne.

‘Or we’re looking at it the wrong way,’ Despenser said. ‘We should liberate Richard, take him somewhere secure.’

Edward nodded. He was worried about Richard, locked up and alone.

‘They’re keeping him in the Tower,’ Surrey said. ‘We can’t exactly push our way in there.’

‘They’ll move him soon,’ Exeter said. He made an impatient gesture at their looks. ‘What, you think Hereford thinks Londoners aren’t fickle and more loyal to themselves than any king? No. He’ll move Richard – and soon.’

‘Pontefract,’ said Despenser, looking sick. ‘No one will be able to free him then.’

‘And Hereford isn’t done with us,’ Exeter said. ‘He’s all smiles and friendship now but you know as well as I do that’ll change. He can’t kill Richard—’

‘Not yet,’ Salisbury whispered.

‘Or punish him more. But they want blood and – we remain as Richard’s friends. His allies. A potential problem for Hereford. So we’ll be bled.’

‘What do we do then?’ Constance said. Her voice was small and weary; Edward had never heard her sound so.

No one spoke. Edward rested his head against the wall, felt the cool stone beneath his fingers. All he could smell was dust.

‘Both,’ Surrey said. ‘We seize Hereford, we liberate Richard. Hereford can be Richard’s ransom and Richard can rally all resistance to Hereford.’

It sounded so neat, so perfect. Edward squeezed his nose between his fingers, fought off a sneeze. If they could do this, if they could make Richard safe and depose Henry – all without the mass shedding of blood. A rising as bloodless as Henry’s coup had been.

‘Hereford must lose his head,’ Surrey said. ‘He cannot be pardoned – any ransom must be temporary. Or a lie. But he must lose his head.’

‘Not just him,’ Exeter said.

*

Henry had dreamt about being king before. Of being clothed in cloth of gold, a cloak of ermine and red velvet and being blessed by the sacred oil before the orb and sceptre were placed in his hands and the crown fitted on his head. Sometimes the dream had ended with him enthroned and mighty but more often he would realise that his clothes were not his own but Richard’s and ill-fitting. Then his father would arrive to pull him down from the throne and cast him into the ditch outside Westminster Abbey while everyone silently watched.

Last night, he had the same dream but he had been dragged out by the corpse sof his and Richard’s fathers. Henry had woken up streaming in sweat.

But that was a dream. This was real.

He waited until his servants had left him or settled down to sleep and then got up, going to the table and opening the gilt box that sat there. The crown gleamed darkly in the firelight.

His father was dead and he had been crowned king without a single challenge. No one had cried out for Mortimer or Richard, only acclaim for Henry. No one, not even those useless favourites of Richard’s, had thought Richard fit to continue. He was too much of a liar, too untrustworthy to remain as king. What to do with him now that he was no longer king but the simple _Sir Richard of Bordeaux_ was a problem. He could not remain in London – Henry had already made arrangements for him be smuggled out – but after that, Henry wasn’t sure,

He raised the crown, set it upon his head. It was heavy and clasped his brow tightly, an uneasy pressure he would have to learn to endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elizabeth of Lancaster** was the second surviving daughter of John of Gaunt and Blanche of Lancaster and the sister of Henry IV. She had been married to John Hastings, the heir to the earldom of Pembroke, when she was around 16 and Hastings 8. At some point, however, she had an affair with John Holland (the second son of Joan of Kent and Thomas Holland, Richard II’s half-brother) and became pregnant. Her marriage to Hasting was swiftly annulled and she and Holland were, equally swiftly, married. She did indeed win a prize for dancing.
> 
>  **Anne of Bohemia** , Richard II’s beloved queen, died in June 1394. Things did not go well after her death and it seems likely that the loss of a stable, loving relationship may have led to Richard’s tyranny.
> 
>  **Sir Richard of Bordeaux** was what Richard II was called following his deposition.


	3. III: Parliament

**October 1399**

Hal had learnt many things since he’d been made Prince of Wales. They rattled around his head, filled it to bursting and yet there was always room for more. There were things that his father – and his father’s supporters – wanted him to learn. His new duties as Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwell, how parliament worked and how good government was made – and that Richard was a bad king.

Richard was a liar and a bad one at that, unreliable and corrupt, with moods that changed with the wind. Those Richard had favoured were just as bad, if not worse, for they had both misled the king and encouraged him in his evils. This was not new to Hal, he had been with Richard for a little under a year and had seen, firsthand, how Richard could be jovial one moment, then furious or grief-struck the next. He’d also been lied to by Richard.

But there were other things Hal had learnt that his father would rather him not to know. How fair speech disguised foul meanings. How many promises Henry would make to achieve what he wanted. How he, Hal, was being made complicit in all of his father’s sins and how little God seemed to care. He had learnt, too, to wear a mask and hide his feelings. He had shredded the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out when they voted to depose Richard and raise up his father.

*

Lord Cobham’s speech was very rousing, Hal thought. He cried out for _common justice_ and said _as the foster-parent_ – meaning Richard – _is, so shall the foster children_ – meaning Richard’s favourites – _be._ He said the favourites had been _glorying in the evils of the time._ Hal thought of his uncle, Thomas of Woodstock, and how his murder had destroyed his son and wife. That was an evil. But Hal shuddered when he saw his father. Henry’s still, contemplative expression could not hide the predatory gleam in his eye as he looked over at the Dukes of Surrey, Exeter and Aumerle and the Earls of Salisbury and Gloucester.

This wasn’t about justice.

It was about revenge.

Hal felt the shout swelling in his chest. He wanted to leap to his feet and cry out that no one was interested in justice, common or uncommon. They wanted revenge and retribution. If these dukes and earls were guilty of an evil, it was the same evil that Henry and Cobham were guilty of.

Cobham sat down, his face red and sweaty, his chest heaving with his breath. The chamber erupted.

Hal stared at Cobham, hoping he would feel his gaze and know that Hal had seen through his words. Cobham didn’t look at him. Why should he? Hal was a child though he felt impossibly old. He touched the coronet that bound his brow, the cold gold. But one day he would be grown, he would be something else. The Prince of Wales in all his power or even – if God willed it – the King of England and France. And then he would not have to hide, he would be able to order Richard’s restoration and true justice.

The chamber went silent. Hal jerked his head towards his father, saw the thinning lips that spoke of displeasure and knew it was meant for him. He was not behaving as he should, Hal supposed, but gawking. Hal bowed his head, arranged his face to look duly impassive.

Another man stood up and began to speak, adding his support. Hal couldn’t remember his name though he knew he should. The man sat down. A different man stood up and spoke. It all meant the same thing. Henry silenced them and spoke, ordering arrests and setting a date to deal with these accusations.

The Dukes of Surrey, Exeter and Aumerle and the Earls of Salisbury and Gloucester stood up and were committed to custody. Hal watched them leave, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to keep his face still. These were Richard’s friends and his kin – Exeter and Salisbury had never had much time for Hal but the others had been kind to him. Aumerle had been his friend.

A break was called. Hal stood up and followed his father out.

*

The door closed behind him and was locked. Thomas’s eyes moved around his cell. It wasn’t a proper cell as such – there were tapestries on the wall and the furnishings, if sparse, were of quality. The bed seemed inviting. Thomas thought of ignoring the servants – not his own, of course, but Lancastrian men who were no doubt doubling as spies – and curling up under the covers until this passed.

He resisted the urge, going over to the table and sniffing at the jug of ale left for him. Poison was possible but he doubted Henry would stoop to it so soon and Thomas was thirsty. He poured himself a cup, swallowed it and glanced around the room again.

They weren’t in real danger – not yet, at any rate. Henry hated them and wanted to purge them from the world, true, but he would not risk his crown by shedding the blood of his fellows so shortly after his own coronation. He hadn’t even risked offence by demanding their arrests himself, instead leaving it to his cronies to denounce them so he could pretend to be a magnanimous king, interested only in justice.

But Thomas knew it would come. It hadn’t just been Edward II who had been killed when he was deposed. Thomas knew it better than anyone else except, perhaps, Richard. It had been Thomas’s great-grandfather and his great-great-grandfather had been executed foully and unlawfully by Isabella of France and her lover.

It had been that, he suspected, that had made Richard so fond of him. It had been Richard who taught him his family history, after all, and taught him about the great injustices done to Edward II and those who loved him. It had been Richard who tried to right those wrongs.

Sometimes, though, Thomas didn’t think of his ancestors’ deaths as an injustice but as part of a curse. Sometimes he thought his bloodline, the line of Despenser, had a line of poison and torment running through it. It had been that which drove Hugh Despenser to his evil and ultimately his death. It had been that which killed Thomas’s brothers and father, leaving Thomas the only Despenser in the world when he was only two. And now, he was Henry’s prisoner.

At least no one had stood up to denounce their plot. That would hopefully remain a secret far from Henry’s ears. It meant more time – to plan, to act, to live.

*

‘What will happen to them?’ Harry said.

Henry lifted the cup of ale to his mouth and sipped at it, using the time to appraise his eldest son. He had changed so much since Henry’s exile. He had been uselessly meek – intelligent and quick but too frightened to _do_ anything with it – and Henry had returned to find him suddenly grown. He was taller than Henry and his stature had straightened. His moods were weightier and it seemed as if a veil had been permanently drawn over his eyes. He looked at Henry and did not look away, his shoulders straight. It seemed odd to Henry that he resented the loss of his son’s shyness when he had spent so much of Harry’s life trying to correct that fault in him.

‘You’re not in the chamber to gawk at everyone,’ he said in answer. ‘You need to _learn._ It will be you who will one day sit on the throne and have to find answers for everyone.’

‘I know,’ Harry said.

There was a flash of something – resistance, disobedience, resentment – in his eyes. Henry gritted his teeth, forced himself to keep his temper. Harry was only young and he had not been brought up for this. His tutor was trying his best but it still took time to make a prince out of a duke’s son.

‘If you cannot pay attention, take notes,’ Henry said. ‘Pretend to be listening – nod occasionally, frown sometimes. Draw nonsense in your wax tablet. Don’t stare with your mouth wide open. It reflects badly on you and it reflects badly on me.’

‘Which is the real problem, isn’t it?’ Harry said.

‘What’s that mean?’ Henry said, nails driving into his palms.

‘Nothing,’ Harry said and stayed stubbornly silent despite Henry’s attempt to wait him out.

Henry sighed and gave in.

‘They’ll be tried,’ he said. ‘Punished too – nothing they don’t deserve. I will be lenient, though. We must hope for reconciliation – Richard was a poison and now he is gone, we can now, perhaps, be friends.’

Again, there was that strange flash in Harry’s eyes. Henry finished his cup of ale, gestured the servant forward with another cup. He forced it into Harry’s hands, watched as his son raised it to his mouth and swallowed it down. His eyes, so like Mary’s, closed themselves tightly. A dribble of ale ran down his chin, Henry reached out to wipe it away and his son flinched back.

‘Your face,’ Henry said, stung.

‘Oh,’ Harry said and scrubbed a hand over it.

*

‘It’s a disgrace,’ Constance was saying. ‘A complete and utter disgrace.’

Elizabeth nodded, attempted to look duly outraged. She did not know how she felt about the arrest and could not quite bring herself to probe the wound. It had been a shock – she had expected things to change but she hadn’t expected John to be _imprisoned._ And yet, there was part of her that was relieved John was no longer with them. She understood his griefs but it was hard to bear his anger at Henry, at _her_.

Constance wouldn’t understand, of course. Constance loved her husband in a way that felt alien to Elizabeth as if the madness of the first infatuation had never run out. They told each other _everything,_ working as if Despenser was no lordly husband that ruled his wife but as if they were in a true partnership. And Constance wasn’t torn between her brother and her husband.

‘I will speak to Henry,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Plead for – mercy.’

‘Will he listen to you?’

‘He must.’

Constance hummed, sitting back in her chair and letting her head fall back, her veils floating in the air before settling, pale and translucent like butterfly wings against her yellow gown. She wove her fingers together, flexed them.

‘They won’t let me see Thomas,’ she said.

‘I’ll ask him for that as well.’

Constance said nothing, watching Elizabeth’s face. Her dark eyes were half-lidded, her lips slightly parted. She sighed, turned towards the window, the shutters cast open to reveal the courtyard. The trees were aflame, their green turned to reds and golds in autumn.

‘Do he think he knows?’

‘Probably,’ she said. ‘Henry always tried to keep himself abreast of everything.’

Constance turned back to her, strangely stricken.

‘Then it is too late?’

‘No? You should come with me to see him,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’ll embarrass him and he _hates_ to be embarrassed – especially in front of women. He’ll give in then.’

‘Oh – you mean he knows _that_ ,’ Constance said.

‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Why, what did you think I meant?’

‘You _don’t_ know?’

‘Know what?’

Constance went silent. She stood and paced by the empty hearth – the day was warm with the last of the summer’s heat – and her face was strange and pale. Elizabeth wanted to ask, _what don’t I know, what has John_ – for it must be John who should have told her – _kept from me?_ But Constance stilled, her hand pressed against her lips.

‘Constance.’

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Not if – not if you don’t already know.’

‘Is – is it dangerous?’

Constance smiled at her. It was a peculiar smile, devoid of joy but in parts fearful and excited. ‘No. Of course not.’

Elizabeth shook her head. It was not true, it was a lie – and yet, what evidence did she have to say that? Constance had told her nothing except that she feared Henry knowing and that if he knew, it was too late. A plot to free Richard, perhaps? But there was danger in that, a foolhardiness. How could they think to break Richard out of the Tower and smuggle him out of London by themselves?

‘And John knows?’

Constance hesitated. ‘If he has said nothing, I should not.’

Elizabeth grimaced. John had said many things, some new treasons but never old treasons. He had cursed her, her brother, her brothers’ children, her father, her father’s wives, her mother—

It had been that that nearly broke her. _Her mother._ No one had ever spoken of Blanche of Lancaster with anything less than flattery. Elizabeth could remember her – just – lying in her coffin and shrouded in white, lilies at her feet and forget-me-nots woven through her pale hair. _A saint,_ Elizabeth’s heart had murmured, and she had not found a way to silence it even when Chaucer recited that damnable poem of his again and again or her father had pointed to her mother as proof of everything good that Elizabeth could only helplessly fail to be.

‘But should I know?’ she asked.

Constance shrugged, spread her hands wide. ‘Ask John.’

Elizabeth wondered whether she would – it was easier to stay silent, to let John exhaust his rage than to risk kindling it anew. There would be some way of finding out that would not require her to ask him.

*

Thomas found it the morning before he was supposed to face parliament. It was a tiny scrap of parchment, folded over and wedged between the chest and the wall. Unfolded, it read simply, _Richard R._ and the date: 12th October 1399. Thomas went cold. He knew the hand that had written it, the way the second _r_ leant towards the lute-shaped _d._ Richard – the king – had been housed in this room and, obviously, had been removed some place else. But where – was he still in the Tower? Or else had Henry already sent him away, to Pontefract?

He had no time to think on it; the guards were at the door. He pushed the parchment into his sleeve, felt it scratch against the crook of his elbow as he was escorted to Westminster and all the time he was being questioned. His answers came from within himself, denials clumsily put but learnt by rote.

No. He had nothing to do with the death of Thomas of Woodstock. No, he did not plot and plan with Richard and the others – he was only _there_ and when he guessed there was to be an arrest, he left to put on his hauberk. He was the last to join, he had no knowledge of it, none at all.

Lies. Liar. He bit his tongue at the end, would not meet the eyes of any that sought to question him. They had all known – even Henry, he suspected, had known that Woodstock would die – but it was over, it was done. They had to save themselves since Richard could not. He felt the parchment against his arm again.

Richard was beyond them.

When he was returned to his room – _his cell_ – he drew out the parchment again, studied the _Richard R._ He drew back his sleeve to find the scratch the parchment had made on the pale underside of his arm. Thomas remembered Richard’s fear, how he urged that they would not delay. They would have to move quickly.

*

‘Your wife is here, my lord,’ one servant said, his eyes carefully distant.

 _Constance._ Thomas stood, tucking the parchment away and then she was there, her lovely face worried as her hands reached out to him. He took her hands, kissed her cheeks and then stepped back.

‘You’re – well?’ she said, dark eyes searching his. ‘I – was worried. You didn’t look right.’

‘Better now I see you,’ he said. ‘I never – standing there, in front of all those people… it was a little… frightening.’

He cut his eyes towards the servants. They were pretending to be busy but he knew they were listening. Constance swallowed, her throat bobbing, and then pressed her hand against his cheek, her eyes large.

‘Everything at home is – well?’ he said.

‘As well as it can be without you,’ she said. ‘The children want you to come home. Do you think it will go well?’

He shrugged. They were demanding blood – Lord Morley was willing to fight and risk death to see Salisbury’s blood spilt – and he could only hope that Henry was tired enough of blood and civil discord to let them go.

‘They are saying,’ Constance said, voice weak, ‘they are saying that you poisoned Woodstock’s son.’

‘What!’

‘I know,’ Constance said. ‘But the boy is dead and they hate you – they say that Richard would’ve given you Woodstock’s lands, Woodstock’s dukedom, once the boy was dead.’

Thomas stared at the wall, shaking his head. He could barely remember Woodstock’s son. He’d been tall and angry. But this was that they thought of Thomas. Maybe it was time he left it behind. Withdrew from the court and public life. It had never served him well, he had never suited it. He would go on a crusade to Prussia or Rhodes, perhaps a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. That would appeal to Henry – he’d gone on crusade to Prussia years ago and he’d never stopped talking about Jerusalem so he could hardly object to Thomas doing the same, and there was always a chance that Thomas might not return, that he might be slaughtered by infidels in the most holy of deaths.

‘It’s absurd, of course,’ Constance said. ‘I told them that.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Thomas said. ‘They’ll think what they like.’

Constance nodded, rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, felt the parchment scratching at his skin. He could not go, not when Richard wasn’t safe. He shook it free, pressed it into Constance’s hands. She looked down at it, then back up at him, her face pale. He clasped her hands tightly.

*

Elizabeth kept her eyes on the tapestry of a unicorn hunt rather look at John’s face. He sat hunched on his bed, his shoulders caved in. It had been bruising to listen to John and the others all denying with most heart-rendering excuses that they had done ill, that they had _gloried in the evils of their time._ Richard alone was to blame, they all said, as if they had nothing to do with it, as if Richard alone should be made to pay for his actions.

She wondered what that meant. A murder for a murder? No. Henry would not.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it is done. We can only wait while they deliberate.’

John lifted his head to stare at her, his mouth pressed into a flat line.

‘I used to think you were the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he said, ‘and now I look at you and think I’d only fuck you to stop you prattling on. _Your brother_ is going to kill me and mine and all you say is _wait_?’

‘What do you want me to say?’ She spread her arms wide, ignored the servants openly staring. ‘That I’ll sneak in his rooms and hold a knife to his throat until he frees you and abdicates to Richard?’

John swore under his breath and looked away.

‘You all denounced Richard,’ she said. ‘Twice now. Is it so hard to look to the future now? To make a new life, under a new king?’

‘And let that man murder my own brother – my last brother?’ John said. ‘I can’t let that happen.’

Elizabeth sighed, sat down on the bed beside him. He shied away from her and then let her hold him, pressing his face against her breast. She felt his shoulders shake, his breath come harshly. It wasn’t fair, they shouldn’t have to choose – and yet, there was no choice. Henry had won. Richard was locked up, powerless, and deserted by his friends. If John could not let it go, he would end up the same way – or worse.

‘What is happening?’ she said quietly. ‘Constance said there was some – secret. John. Tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said. ‘Constance is – confused.’

‘But—’

He pulled away from her, eyes cold and face furious.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Some foolish notion Constance has. You know her.’

He was lying, she thought. He did not trust her to tell her the truth – or even to admit there was some secret she was not to know.

*

She went back to their lodgings and up to John’s room. From the doorway, she studied it. If there was any evidence of Constance’s secret and John’s lie to be found, it was in this room. Yet the room was too neat. The bed was immaculate, its curtains tied back, the table with its papers and books set out in ordered piles, the pots of ink ready and waiting to be used. There was not even dust lingering over the room. Their servants had cleaned it as if any moment John might arrive.

Well. She would not find the evidence if she did not look for it. She went to the desk, flicked through the papers. Nothing. Accounts, mostly, and a scribbled drawing of a goat. A wax tablet with only _Maudelyn_ written on it. What was she to make of that, then? She knew Maudelyn – Richard’s clerk, one of her father’s bastards – and knew he was in trouble with Henry’s regime. Maybe John was trying to help him? But it was hard to see how that was a secret.

Perhaps she was being silly. If it were important, surely John would have told her. Unless he didn’t trust her, if he thought she might betray it. She reached out with a hand, opening the cover of one book. If he didn’t trust her, he wouldn’t keep evidence of his secret where she could easily stumble on it. No, he would hide it. She would have to find it.

A little later, she stood in the centre of the room, surveying the mess she had made. The covers had been stripped back from the bed, its curtains askew and the tapestries had been pulled down from the walls. Sheets of parchment were strewn across the floor, the books had been flipped through and then discarded. She had found nothing. Nothing.

Elizabeth sighed and ran her hand over her face, flicking away a bead of sweat. She should’ve known. John was a man for action, not words.

She sank down on the bed, held her head in her hands. In a moment, she’d tidy it. If she left it for a servant to do, they’d only gossip and John might hear. She sighed. She still didn’t know what his secret was.

*

Henry was magnanimous, Henry was gracious. He had listened to the accusations and cries for justice with a careful eagerness. He had listened to the denials and the lies and the few admittances with an impassive face, watched as they had squirmed in their seats, faces hollow with days of imprisonment – not that they were meanly treated, of course. He knew they were guilty. _Counter-Appellants._ As if they had not known they were doing wrong.

Of course, he had been one of their number, one of Richard’s richly rewarded _duketti._ But he had only done what was right. He had not stooped to murder. He had not encouraged, anyone, much less the king, to stoop to murder either.

He leant forward to announce the judgement, saw York’s stoic face gazing back at him. This was not justice, of course – even as a king, Henry could not bring the dead back to life, and these men were too important to send to the executioner. He did not want the beginning of his reign to be marked by excessive blood shedding either. Henry cleared his throat.

Aumerle, Surrey and Exeter were no more. They had lost their dukedoms and become again the earls of Rutland, Kent and Huntington. Despenser was no longer Earl of Gloucester but simply Lord Despenser again. They would all lose their royal grants. Salisbury could keep his title and his grants for now but in the new year, he would duel Lord Morley and, if God was just, Morley would be the victor.

Henry leant back in the throne, smiled. It was a mercy, whether Richard’s _foster-children_ deserved it or not.

*

Edward tried to not to show his relief too keenly. He hadn’t known he had been so afraid until Henry had spoken and all he could feel was a roaring sensation in his heart. He was to lose his dukedom and some lands but his life was his. He would live. He wanted to turn to his father and laugh, he wanted to find his wife and tell her as many jests as it took until she was red-faced and giggling, he wanted to push his way into the king’s private chamber and embrace Richard—

Suddenly sober, he sat very still, not hearing the words that kept going – the petitions presented to Henry, the new king’s responses. Richard would never be in that chamber again, not until they were successful in their rebellion against Henry.

When at last the session was over, Edward made his excuses and went out into the courtyard, trying to breathe the cool, fresh air. The trees had lost most of their leaves and the breeze had a bitter edge to it. He leant against the wall, felt the stone’s ice-like touch seep through his layers of clothes.

‘You’re not happy?’ a voice said.

Edward dragged his eyes open, found Hal looking at him. He seemed pale, his lips chapped. Edward could not help but remember Richard calling him _resilient._ He had not seemed so then and he certainly didn’t seem so now.

He shrugged in answer.

‘You’re alive, though,’ Hal said. ‘I suppose that’s what counts.’

‘Does it?’

‘Richard would want you to live,’ Hal said.

Edward gave a small smile. He didn’t want to think of Richard and the ways he was failing him. He didn’t want to think of himself going free and of Richard sitting confined in the Tower – if Henry hadn’t moved him. He didn’t want to think of the meetings he’d have to make with Huntington and the others, the plans for a rising that would seek to kill Hal’s father.

‘How did you find your first parliament?’ he asked.

Hal grimaced. Edward laughed.

‘It will get better.’

‘I hope so,’ Hal said, kicking the gravel beneath his feet. ‘I suppose I’ll get more used to it in time. And there won’t be as much – bad things.’

‘God willing.’

Hal’s smile was thin, quickly disappearing. ‘It will get better, won’t it? It’s just that things are – unsettled. But once time has passed, it will be alright?’

‘I hope so,’ Edward said.

He reached out, clasped Hal’s shoulder. He could feel the tension in the muscle, held rigidly still. The poor child, he thought, to be caught in the middle of this. At the start of the year, Hal had been nothing more than the Duke of Lancaster’s grandson. Then he had seen his father’s lands confiscated, his future jeopardised and his father usurping the king.

Now he was the king’s son, the Prince of Wales, and forced to grow more mature than his years. And worse was to come for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotations of **Lord Cobham’s speech** are real and are quoted from Michael Bennett’s _Richard II and the Revolution of 1399_. The parliament sessions of October 1399 are, as far as we know, Henry V’s first time witnessing parliament. 
> 
> **Maudelyn** is a reference to Richard Maudelyn, a man who very strongly resembled Richard II and it has been suggested that he was the illegitimate son of Richard’s father or one of his uncles. A Hawise Maudelyn was one of Katherine Swynford’s damsels which suggests his father was possibly none other than John of Gaunt. 
> 
> **Despenser’s family history** is briefly referred to in the notes to the first chapter. He was the sole surviving son of his parents and only two when his father died. His great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather were the Hugh Despensers executed in Isabella of France and Roger Mortimer’s invasion of England.
> 
> Despenser also was reputedly considering withdrawing from politics and going on a crusade. 
> 
> The **Counter-Appellants** (or duketti) were those who had helped Richard gain revenge on the original Lord Appellants, most notably Surrey, Exeter, Salisbury, Despenser (promoted to Earl of Gloucester) and Aumerle – who lost the titles and lands they had gained from 1397, becoming again Kent, Huntington, Salisbury, Despenser and Rutland in 1399. Amongst their number were the two junior Lords Appellant, Henry IV and Mowbray, though they were less loyal. Henry was quick to pretend he had nothing to do with it. 
> 
> **Blanche of Lancaster** was the mother of Elizabeth of Lancaster and Henry IV, and the beloved first wife of John of Gaunt, with whom he is buried. Geoffrey Chaucer’s _The Book of the Duchess_ was written as an elegy to her.


	4. IV: Plans

**November 1399**

The afternoon sun filled their room with light. Thomas let his gaze drift upwards, to the canopy above the bed, the bright blue silk embroidered with golden suns. It felt to him as if the moment, the hour, was crystalline. The warmth of their room made him feel languid and safe. It would not last. The sun would set, they would wash and dress and have supper with Constance’s father – a dreaded occurrence, especially since Rutland would be there as well. But it felt immaterial, distant and far off.

Constance sighed. Thomas turned on his side, saw her gleaming chestnut hair spread over the pillow. She touched her fingers to his mouth, he kissed them He loved her, he thought with blissful reverence. He had sometimes thought the sight of her bare wrists would bring him to tears and seeing her neat, compact body lying beside him was almost overwhelming after his time in the Tower.

‘I missed you,’ he said.

She smiled at him, eyes filling with tears. ‘I came as often as I could.’

‘I know.’

She sniffed, began to sit up. ‘I wish we could stay in bed forever.’

‘There’s an idea,’ he said and ran his hand down her side, let his hand settle on the curve of her waist. She laughed and pushed his hand away.

‘What will happen now?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been considering a crusade.’

‘A crusade?’

‘It might be for the best,’ he said. ‘If I leave England for a time, let the grievances against me grow old. It worked for Henry.’

‘His poor wife was left alone for all that time, though,’ she said.

Thomas nodded. He did not want to leave Constance – not after his time in Ireland and in the Tower – but she could not come with him. She bit her lip and raised her eyes to his face.

‘And what about Richard?’

Another problem. He rolled onto his back, stared up at the golden suns. The light was already fading; they no longer glittered. Constance laid her head on his chest, above his heart. He could not abandon Richard, could he? Not when Richard had been so afraid and so certain of his fate if left in Henry’s care.

‘I don’t know.’

‘If he’s gone from the Tower—’

‘Then it bodes ill.’

‘So we cannot delay.’

He said nothing, rolled away from her and got up, beginning to wash. Constance frowned at him, her eyes too knowing.

‘If we are successful,’ she said, ‘Richard will reward you handsomely. And he will expect you to stay and help him re-establish his rule. You won’t need to go on crusade, the grievances against us won’t matter.’

‘And if we fail,’ he said, ‘what then?’

‘Then you swear to go on crusade or a barefoot pilgrimage,’ she said, ‘and return to serve Henry, loyally and forever.’

*

The silence stretched on. Edward found himself staring mostly at his plate with the selection of spiced capon, brie tart and parsnip fritters he had piled there. Occasionally, he sent quick, darting glances around the table, hoping not to meet the eyes of anyone there. He didn’t want to find his father studying him, Despenser looking towards the window as if he might leap out of it or, worse, Constance staring at him in a silent challenge. Joan, his father’s wife, made cautious, empty statements that only Philippa responded to in a similar way. Edward was glad that his brother wasn’t there, it would only make things more difficult.

‘Well,’ said York, ‘that’s done with and I hope you can put it behind you.’

‘Put it behind us?’ Constance said, arching her dark brows. ‘Hereford—’

‘ _Henry_ ,’ York said sharply. ‘The king.’

‘He is no king,’ Constance said. ‘And certainly not one I would have curtsied to if you hadn’t made me.’

York sighed loudly, casting his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. Joan cringed, seemed to squirm in her seat. Despenser eyed the window hopefully.

‘He was coronated,’ Philippa said. ‘Blessed with the sacred oil.’

‘So was Richard,’ Constance said. ‘But that meant nothing to Hereford – or to you, Father.’

‘Enough,’ York snapped. ‘Do you not care that your husband and your brother are not safe?’

‘They were tried, pardoned—’

‘For now,’ York said. ‘The king wants reconciliation, he wants no more blood to be shed. He is willing to forgive. But he won’t forget.’

‘Henry never does,’ Edward muttered, raising his cup to his mouth. He’d drunk too much already but he could not seem to help himself. He reached for his slice of brie tart, cursed as it burnt his fingers. He popped in his mouth, sucked.

‘I have done the best I can for all of you—’

‘ _The best_?’ Despenser said, whipping around to stare at York. ‘You _let_ Henry win. If you had fought for Richard—’

‘I will not be spoken to like that,’ York said. ‘Not by you, Lord Despenser. You are eating at my table because of your wife, not yourself. And you! Encouraging the king to focus on old, forgotten history!’

‘He didn’t,’ Constance said at once. ‘You know Richard. He always felt a kinship with Edward II. It was his idea.’

‘And that was precisely the problem with Richard,’ York said. ‘It hardly matters now. Richard is deposed, Henry is crowned. What matters is _you_.’

There was silence. Joan took a deep breath, her face twitching. Edward withdrew his fingers from his mouth, studied them. They were pink and wet but not burnt. A servant came forward, pouring water into a basin and Edward washed his hands.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘Richard is done. Grieve for him if you must but let it go,’ York said. ‘In time, Richard will grow old and forgotten in Henry’s care. But Henry will be watching you and your fellows closely. He will be your friend if you are loyal – but he is prepared to act if you betray him.’

‘What call has he to our loyalty?’

York ignored Constance this time. His eyes focused on Edward. ‘I cannot protect you forever,’ he said. ‘I am old and my time is running out.’

And is that why you betrayed Richard, Edward thought but did not dare say. His father raised his hands, studied them. They were an old man’s hands, the joints swollen, the flesh gaunt and the skin scored with wrinkles. There was something pitiful in it but Edward did not feel pity.

‘I chose this path, this king,’ York said. ‘The same as you—'

‘I didn’t _choose,_ ’ Edward said. ‘I had no choice. The army wouldn’t fight for a king who abandoned them, abandoned me—’

‘I was _with_ Richard when he surrendered,’ Despenser said. ‘He stipulated my safety when he surrendered. I never chose Henry.’

‘You were happy to support the articles of deposition,’ York said. ‘Both of you. We all on the same path now and we must stick it. What has been done – we can only live with it.’

‘But it isn’t _right,_ ’ Constance said.

‘None of it is right,’ Edward said.

‘I want you all safe,’ York said. ‘So for God’s sake, let this be. We will grieve for Richard and miss him but if we are all alive, all safe – that is the best we can hope for it.’

‘It’s done,’ Joan said very quietly.

Edward felt Philippa’s knee pressing against his. He thought of his meetings with Despenser, Kent, Huntington and Salisbury and his stomach squirmed.

‘He’ll kill Richard,’ Despenser said. ‘You know that. He won’t _grow old._ ’

‘There’s a chance he won’t,’ York said. ‘If Henry has no reason to fear Richard, he’ll leave him be.’

‘And we are to stake all on the chance he won’t?’ Edward said.

‘We must,’ York said.

*

Edward slipped beneath the covers, turned and kissed his wife’s cheek. She was frowning, eyes dark and distant in the low light, and he felt a sliver of unease, remembering her words: _he was coronated, blessed with the sacred oil._ Did she favour Henry over Richard? Could he ask her without giving away his own position and, if he couldn’t, would she betray him in turn?

‘Does this change anything for you?’ she said. ‘Your father’s disapproval?’

He stared at her, mouth opening, and she laughed.

‘You can’t fool _me_ ,’ Philippa said. ‘You’ve loved Richard for so long – even if you’re forced to submit, could you stop?’

‘But you said—’

‘If you don’t want your father to work out what you’re planning, at least one of us is going to have to pretend to have accepted Henry,’ she said.

He winced, wondered what his father was making of his words, his obvious unhappiness with Richard’s captivity, with Henry’s rule. At least he had managed to be more restrained than Constance. But that hardly mattered.

‘What did you think of what he said?’

‘He’s worried. He wants to protect you but—’ Philippa shrugged ‘—it doesn’t have to mean anything.’

‘Do you think he has a point?’

‘That’s not for me to say,’ she said. ‘It’s your choice, Edward, not mine – I can only say that I wish you were safe and happy. But then, as you said, none of this is right. The only thing to do is to decide whether you can live with it or not.’

Edward opened his mouth, shut it. He wished she would tell him one way or the other. _I wish you were safe and happy._ It was an answer that answered nothing at all. He could not be safe if he worked to restore Richard, he could not be happy unless Richard was restored, he did not know if he could live with it.

‘I suppose,’ Philippa said, ‘it will be hard for poor Hal.’

‘He loves Richard.’

It came out defensive. Philippa raised her brows at him.

‘I know he does,’ she said. ‘But you’re still killing his father.’

Edward opened his mouth, shut it. He had never thought of it like that before – he, who had been so concerned for Hal when Henry invaded, had somehow forgotten that Hal was Henry’s son. He was saved from answering by Constance knocking at the door and quickly entering, pulling back the hangings around their bed. Edward bit back a groan. If he had to be saved, could it be by anyone but his sister?

‘We could have been asleep,’ he said.

‘Well, you weren’t,’ Constance said, her eyes lit by the candle she held. ‘This will take less time if you let me talk without interrupting.’

Edward rolled his eyes, Constance glared at him. Philippa let out a long-suffering sigh.

‘Please,’ Philippa said. ‘Let her talk.’

‘Thank you,’ Constance said primly. ‘Richard’s gone. He’s been moved.’

‘What?’ Edward said. ‘He can’t have – how would you know that?’

‘Thomas was kept where Richard was. He found this,’ she said.

She passed Edward a scrap of parchment and held her candle closer. He took in the painfully familiar writing and felt sick. So she was telling the truth.

‘Nothing Father said changes anything,’ she said. ‘It can’t.’

She snatched back the sheet of parchment and left as quickly as she had come. Edward stared after her, the bed hangings swaying, and thought he might vomit.

*

A messenger came, dressed in the arms of England with a letter sealed with the king’s signet. Elizabeth thought, _Richard._ Realisation struck painfully. Richard was no longer king. It was easy to forget now they were away from the royal court and parliament – John’s anger had lessened, became a surliness she and their children could tease him out of. Still, the messenger would bring back that back and serve as a reminder of what had happened. How John’s brother had fallen and hers had risen.

Well, she thought, there was no need for the messenger to suffer John’s anger. She took the letter herself and gave orders that the king’s messenger would be fed and refreshed while he waited for their response.

Outside, the day was warm, the sky clear save a few wispy clouds and John was in the training yard, on his horse and bearing down on the quintain.

Elizabeth allowed herself to remember the first time she had seen him joust – the great strength of him, the fineness of his movement. But that was gone. He was graceless and brutal. His lance splintered when it struck the quintain. He wheeled his charger around, shouting for a new lance and then saw her by the fence.

‘What?’ he said, lifting the visor of his helm.

‘A letter,’ she said, ‘from the king.’

There was a moment of hesitation as if he too thought of Richard before remembering Henry was the king now. He dismounted, throwing the reins to his page and took the letter, tearing it open. His face went slack.

‘What is it?’ she said.

He looked up, grinning. ‘Your brother’s invited us to Windsor for Christmas.’

‘Oh?’ she said, beginning to smile.

‘He wishes for reconcilement,’ John said.

It was odd how pleased he was. But perhaps that reconcilement was what he wanted. If he and Henry reconciled, Henry would have no reason to deprive John of titles or lands and John would have no reason to complain of mistreatment. Perhaps, too, John could advocate for Richard – they could, perhaps, even receive custody of him. That would be the best thing, wouldn’t it?

‘Will we go?’

‘Of course,’ John said. ‘Will you do the honours of composing our gracious acceptance?’

His hand took hold of her chin, raised her face to his and kissed her.

*

Elizabeth watched her reflection in the silver-gilt mirror her damsel held up for her as another unbound her hair from its braids and templers and brushed it. She could remember, years and years ago, sneaking into her mother’s room to watch her mother be tended by her damsels. The vases of great, white lilies and delicate bunches of forget-me-knots. The gowns laid out, shot through with gold or silver thread. The floral perfumes. Her mother’s unbound hair, swinging free and brushed until it was gleaming. Elizabeth’s hair had once been the same silvery blond but hers had darkened with age. It was a hard thing to accept that she was older than her mother had ever been.

The door opened and John was there. He dismissed Elizabeth’s women and went to her, running his hands through her hair.

‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow,’ he said.

Elizabeth paused, picking up the mirror and tilted it until she could see his face. He was neither happy nor unhappy but filled with great energy. He had not mentioned he was going anywhere.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Do you have to know everything?’ he said and then sighed. ‘The Earl of Kent. I want to make sure he’s alright – and that he’s been invited too.’

‘Would not a letter suffice?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s too easy to lie in them. Best if I see him.’

His eyes were averted. She set her mirror down, twisted in her chair to watch him.

‘Do you fear for him?’

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Just – I’d like to see him settled. He is my nephew, after all. My blood.’

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to come with you? I could talk to the Countess in case there’s something he’s holding back from you...’

John’s eyes widened and she thought something like panic crossed his face. But then she blinked and his face was impassive again. He tugged lightly on her hair.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t be away long and I’ll travel more quickly on my own.’

He reached for her, held her by the waist and kissed her again.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘No more of this. Come to bed and give me a proper farewell.’

*

The weather turned during the night. Edward, who had spent the night in an abbey on the way to meet with others of the conspiracy, beheld the rain falling in a fine mist, the sodden ground, and felt his heart lift. It was miserable weather but he didn’t feel miserable. He was acting with a purpose again. They were going to put things to rights, restore Richard to the throne and put an end to the evils that beset England.

He rode. The land around him was green: lush fields broken up by hedges, poplars by the road and hills topped with crowns of pine trees, woven with mist. Edward let his head fall back, staring up at the grey sky and felt the pinpricks of rain on his face – too fine to be properly wetting.

At last, he arrived at the meeting place. It was the ruin of a cottage, the grey stone walls still standing, the remains of the roof still in place but the windows bare, gaping, crumbling holes. Edward was the last to arrive. Huntington, Kent and Salisbury were already there, sitting on stools where the hearth had once been, and Despenser was not coming – Edward would pass on the outcomes of the meeting to him. One of their esquires had lit a fire but the wood was too damp to properly catch. It smoked and spat but gave off little heat.

‘Let’s not waste time,’ Huntington said. ‘Hereford’s invited us for Christmas – he wants to reconcile. Fool. It’s the best time to move on him.’

‘We’ve had no news of Richard,’ Salisbury said. ‘Have—’

‘We have,’ Edward said. ‘He’s been moved, probably to Pontefract.’

Huntington cursed.

Kent shook his head, staring at the ground. ‘It’ll be hard to get him out of there. Swynford’s in charge, he’s in thick with Hereford.’

‘Not impossible,’ Huntington said. ‘Once we get hold of Hereford… he can be made to order Richard’s release. If he refuses, we’ll ransom him. Swynford will do anything for him.’

Edward shivered. His rain-dampened clothes seemed to be turning to ice around him. _He can be made to order Richard’s release. He can be made._ Edward remembered the story of the friar who accused John of Gaunt of trying to kill the king. He’d been horribly murdered under Holland’s orders. Was he thinking of torturing Henry to get what he wanted?

‘We will have to be careful,’ Salisbury said. ‘Richard is in Swynford’s power. He may use Richard to bargain. Or, if he sees no way out…’

Salisbury trailed off. Kent looked green. Edward swallowed hard, tried to find hope in the risk.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘We will be careful. Make no threats until we can assure it. Swynford can be reasonable. But we might Richard to seize Henry—’

‘Maudelyn will stand in for him,’ Huntington said. ‘Once he’s dressed properly, he’ll easily pass for Richard so long as no one asks him too many questions.’

Edward knew this. He could still the painful throb of his heart when he saw Maudelyn returning from Ireland with Hal, Bagot and the accruements of Richard’s chapel. For a brief moment, he had thought Maudelyn _was_ Richard and nearly threw himself down onto his knees to beg forgiveness for failing him.

They talked a little longer, making plans. They named men they could trust – Lord Lumley, the abbot of Westminster, Sir Thomas Blount, the Bishops of Carlisle and Norwich. The masques and tournaments planned to celebrate the Feast of Epiphany would provide a good cover for the raising of men to seize Henry and his heirs. Across the country, men would rise for Richard, the true king. Huntington would win London, Kent and Salisbury would take Queen Isabelle to raise Cheshire and all of Wales if they could. Maudelyn would appear as Richard to lead armies and rebels for the king. Henry would be kept alive until Richard could be secured and then killed.

When it was all laid out, there was a silence. Huntington and Kent looked into the sad remnants of the fire. The rain was coming down heavily, no more a fine mist to veil the world but hard and driving. Edward winced at the thought of the ride ahead of him.

‘And what of the boys?’ Salisbury asked, poking a stick at the fire to knock it apart. ‘Hereford’s sons.’

‘What of them?’ Edward said. ‘Richard will deal with them as he wants.’

‘He’s too soft,’ Kent said. ‘You know that. He won’t treat them as he should. But the eldest – the false Prince of Wales – he’s too deep into this to be released.’

‘We kill them,’ Huntington said. standing up with a clatter. ‘Lancaster’s too powerful and they’re Hereford’s heirs. A rallying point for other traitors and malcontents.’

‘The youngest is _nine_ ,’ Edward said. ‘The eldest is _thirteen._ They’re _children_.’

‘The eldest had no issue turning traitor the moment he saw the gain in it for himself,’ Huntington said. ‘He wears the titles he has no right to. And his youth makes him biddable, pliable. A potential puppet.’

‘Richard won’t agree,’ Salisbury said. ‘He loves Hal.’

‘Which is why it must be done before Richard can counter our will,’ Kent said. His eyes were on Huntington, looking for support. ‘You know as well as I do that as long as they live, as long Henry’s grievances will have heirs, they will be a danger to Richard – and to us.’

Edward shook his head. ‘No, no. Hal loves Richard, he wouldn’t—’

‘His name is on the articles deposing Richard!’ Huntington spat. ‘He is in it with his father, right up to his neck—’

‘So are we all!’ Salisbury said. ‘Our names are on those articles too. We swore obedience to Hereford too.’

‘We had no choice,’ Kent said. ‘We all know that. Hereford was too strong. But – Hal doesn’t have much choice, does he? He’s a child. Someone will use him.’

To Edward’s disgust, he saw Salisbury’s shock begin to give way to understanding. He was giving in, he was actually _considering_ the horrors Huntington and Kent were advocating.

‘And the others?’ Edward said. ‘The youngest is a sickly thing, another more interested in his books and the other – a reckless, stupid creature.’

‘We all heard Hal’s stories,’ Huntington said. ‘We all know what they’re like. It doesn’t matter. Lancaster’s line is too strong. It must be extinguished.’

‘And the girls too, I suppose,’ Edward said. ‘Who are even younger. Christ!’

‘No,’ Kent said. ‘No, they’ll be heiresses to the duchy. We’ll marry them off and split the duchy between their husbands. Or send them both to a convent and Richard can parcel out their lands as he likes.’

Edward began to shake his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s too crude, too cruel – these should be left for Richard to decide.’

‘He’s too soft,’ Huntington said. ‘You know that. He’ll pardon the boy and feed him well, never realising he’s nursing a snake. Even if the boy stays loyal, there’s no guarantee his brothers will.’

‘Or that Arundel or Northumberland won’t use them to stir up a frenzy against Richard,’ Kent said.

‘I wouldn’t put it past their grandmother either,’ Salisbury said.

‘Richard won’t like it.’

‘He’ll forgive us,’ Huntington said and swallowed. ‘In time. When he understands we did it for love of him. When he understands the danger they posed.’

Edward opened his mouth, shut it. _We did it for love of him._ Perhaps Richard would understand it – they _did_ love Richard, they were risking much for him. Edward knew there was a certain logic to their arguments. Henry had been anointed and crowned, he was _the king_ to the eyes of others – his sons, therefore, were the sons of a king. They would inspire rebellions in their names, no matter how loyal they were. But surely – surely they couldn’t kill children.

‘You hope he does.’

‘Yes,’ Huntington said. ‘I do hope that because it is our best course.’

‘You understand that, don’t you?’ Kent said. ‘It’s not that they deserve to die or that we want their inheritance. They’re dangerous, even as children.’

Salisbury gave a small, stiff nod. Edward raised his head up, stared at the ceiling and listened to the rain. It was true. They were dangerous.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do understand.’

Four children’s lives for Richard’s life, for Richard’s crown. An exchange. A risk. A terrible price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **York family.** The Duke of York seems to have accepted the new status quo relatively quietly but his children did not. Rutland and Despenser were both involved in the Epiphany Rising and presumably Constance was aware and supported their efforts. In 1405, Constance was involved in another conspiracy against Henry IV and claimed that Rutland was the instigator of the plot. Their brother, Richard – later Earl of Cambridge and grandfather of Edward IV – was executed for his part in the Southampton Plot against Henry V.
> 
>  **Philippa de Mohun** and Rutland had married by October 1398. This was a somewhat unusual match as she was around twenty years his senior (he was around 25 in 1398, meaning she was in her 40s), had borne no children in her two previous marriages and brought no lands or great wealth to the marriage. Their marriage remained childless. 
> 
> **Joan, Duchess of York** was the second wife of the Duke of York and sister of Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent. They had no children. The mother of York’s children was his first wife, Isabella of Castile (the second daughter of Pedro the Cruel and sister of John of Gaunt’s second wife, Constanza). 
> 
> **Thomas Swynford** was the son of Hugh and Katherine Swynford and was in charge of Pontefract Castle when Richard was imprisoned there. He was reputedly close to Henry. 
> 
> It isn’t clear who were **the ringleaders of the Epiphany Rising** nor who suggested killing Henry IV’s sons. I chose Huntington because of he had the strongest connection to murder. In 1385, he murdered Ralph Stafford, the son and heir of the Earl of Stafford, and had earlier been part of the horrible murder of a friar who accused John of Gaunt of trying to murder Richard II. However, it seems that Kent and Salisbury were accused of trying to destroy Henry and Gaunt in the lead up to Henry’s exile.


	5. V: Problems

**November – December 1399**

Elizabeth laid on her back, staring up into the darkness. She was very aware of John lying on his side beside her, asleep or pretending to be asleep. This, then, was the situation: her husband did not trust her. He was lying to her.

He had come back from his visit to his nephew Kent in better spirits. His anger was extinguished and he indulged the children in their demands for his attention and participation in their games. He was solicitous of her, giving her a present of a sapphire necklace he claimed matched her eyes (the gems were too dark) and was gentle with her. But he was distant and secretive in other ways.

He had meetings with his men, too many to be normal, and when she asked, he averted his eyes and said things like, _well, we have to adjust to the new regime_ or _we have less income now, we must make changes to reflect our new status._ Elizabeth supposed that was true but why would he tell her so little detail and with so little anger if their situation had been drastically changed because of Henry? Then there were the times when he would leave their home. Sometimes, he said he was hunting but there would be no kills made and he was too skilled a hunter for that. Or he would be inspecting their other estates or speaking to their officials and tenants but he would be gone too short a time or come home from the wrong direction.

He never denied it. Never. He’d lie again – say he finished early and went somewhere else – or he’d accuse her of spying on him and questioning him when she had no right.

‘You don’t tell me anything,’ she’d cried. ‘What else can I do?’

He’d just stared at her and she’d flown at him but he’d pushed her away. She knew she was too ruled by her passions and had always been but she wasn’t stupid. He was planning something and lying to her about it. He didn’t trust her.

She sat up slowly. John didn’t stir. He really was asleep and somehow that hurt more than the notion he was pretending to sleep. If he’d been awake, she’d have known that it troubled him, this new distance between them. Instead, it felt as if he, who once loved her, did not care in the slightest.

*

Philippa was sitting at the table in her solar, her head bowed over the accounts when Edward went to see her. She sat back in her chair, her round face surprised.

‘You’re back early,’ she said. ‘I’d thought you’d go to see your sister.’

He had thought so too. Indeed, he had planned to in order to pass on the news of their meeting so Despenser was informed as quickly as possibly. Instead, Edward had ridden home mindless, thinking only of being in his own space with Philippa beside him for comfort, and had been somewhat dazed to find Philippa dressed in the clothes she wore when she did not expect company, even his.

‘No,’ he said and crossed the room to sit opposite her.

She put her hands out and he took them. They were warm and dry. Swiftly, she dismissed her receiver and women, so that they were alone. He told her what had transpired at the meeting and her face grew grave.

‘They’re children,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t have much time for children but even the eldest – he’s but a boy and an obedient one at that. Does not the Bible tell us to honour one’s father?’

‘I know.’

‘And they know that Richard would disapprove – why else would they seek to do it before he can decide what to do with the children?’

‘Exactly!’ Edward said. ‘I don’t know how they expect to explain this to him either – Huntington _knows_ Richard is very fond of Hal. What will they say? They accidentally smothered themselves in their sleep? Or that they all accidentally stabbed each other to death?’

‘It’s difficult to see how he would credit any story that sees four boys dead.’

‘But somehow, they suppose that he will,’ Edward said. ‘Or that he will be too grateful that he will accept it. But _Hal._ He loves Hal.’

‘As do you.’

Philippa smiled at him sadly. They had no children themselves and she had no interest in motherhood or children. Edward accepted that but he had always wanted to be a father and Hal had somehow fit into that gap in his life. He had worried after Hal and had, with Richard, built up his confidence. And now – they stood on opposing sides. Or rather, Edward stood on one side and Hal’s father on the other and Hal was in the middle, ready to be torn apart.

‘So we must not let it come to that,’ Philippa said. She stood up and walked around the table, pressing her hands to Edward’s shoulders. ‘Did anyone else disagree?’

‘Salisbury seems convinced by Huntington and Kent,’ Edward said dully. ‘And of course, they’re right. The boys are a danger – not themselves but because of what they stand for.’

‘They might be more reasonable alone.’

 _Might._ It was not enough.

‘What do I?’ Edward said.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘You must try to convince Despenser that the others have the wrong way of it. And then – try to speak with them on their own, see reason.’

He nodded. Tomorrow, he would go to Despenser and speak to him. Despenser would be most likely to agree with him that the children weren’t to be touched, much less killed. If Despenser agreed – and he must – then they would speak to Salisbury and go on from there.

*

After Rutland left, Thomas and Constance went into the garden. They said nothing of importance at first. Thomas exclaimed at the trees full of apple blossom, Constance wondered at the harvest that might come and how they would serve these apples. Stewed, poached, minced, baked or made into a broth to serve as a dessert or as a pairing to pork or fish. Thomas listened without hearing much, thinking instead of what Rutland had told them. About the plot to seize Henry, free Richard and, now, kill four children.

‘I still want to go on a crusade,’ he said.

Constance stopped, her sharp brows rising.

‘We’ve talked about this,’ she said. ‘Richard needs you now. A crusade can wait until he is safe.’

‘He won’t forgive us.’

‘He loves you,’ she said.

‘He loves Hal too.’

Constance sighed. ‘Then we must stand apart. If Huntington and Kent wish to do this, we will have no part in it.’

‘Rutland wants us to oppose it with him,’ Thomas said. ‘But you can’t change Huntington’s mind once it’s made up.’

‘I know,’ Constance said. ‘And it seems foolish to risk everything on this.’ At his look, she hastily went on. ‘They’re children, I know, and they have done nothing to deserve death. But neither has Richard and you know in Henry’s hands he will die.’

Thomas nodded. ‘But—’

‘If we’re smart about it, there doesn’t have to be a choice,’ she said. ‘We agree to it – we convince _Edward_ to agree to it. And when it happens, we take custody of the children. We keep them somewhere safe, where Huntington can’t touch them and wait for Richard to decide what to do with them.’

Thomas let his head fall back, looking up at the sky through the branches of the apple tree, the soft, white blossoms rippling in the breeze. It sounded so simple.

‘Do we tell your brother about this plan?’

‘Only if he seems to be panicking,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust him. He should’ve made the army fight – he should’ve done anything except surrender to Henry. He gave up without a fight and now – now look at things.’

Thomas opened his mouth, shut it. He didn’t want to tell her that he might have surrendered too had he been in Rutland’s position. She would hate him for that. Instead, he turned to her and kissed her, cupping her shoulders.

‘We’ll do it, then,’ he said.

*

Why the Earl of Rutland had descended upon Westminster was beyond Henry but there was Rutland, standing before Henry with his hat in his hands and looking around the study with rather large eyes as if studying all the changes Henry had made to it. Henry did not bother to wonder whether Rutland thought it better or worse than when the room had been Richard’s – it didn’t matter but Henry had needed to make the space his own to get rid of the feeling that he had accidentally wandered into someone else’s room. And there had been practical considerations: a desk for him to work at, more shelves for his books.

He was really too busy to see Rutland but given Rutland’s lineage and rank, he couldn’t just ignore him – that had been the problem with Richard, of course, he had always ignored people and things he shouldn’t. But Henry was concerned about the border with Scotland, he was concerned about Wales, he was concerned about France, and he was concerned about his eldest son. He had to decide what to do with the French king’s daughter, who was no longer a queen, and Richard, who he could not trust to accept defeat. Then there was the great knot of problems that Henry spent most of his day considering so he could heal England of the wounds Richard had inflicted.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Henry said, in an effort to be polite. ‘I hope we will be able to work together.’

Rutland jumped. ‘Oh. Yes. I hope so too.’

He stared down at his hat as if he had forgotten he was holding it.

‘So,’ Henry said. ‘How might we work towards that?’

He felt like he was a nurse talking to a young child, trying to encourage them to use their words not their fists or tears to get a point across.

‘I want to see Richard,’ Rutland blurted out.

Henry blinked. He hadn’t expected _that._ He leant back in his chair, staring at the tapestry of Jerusalem he had hung on the opposite wall. He promised himself he would go there when everything was in order. Perhaps he would take Harry with him and that, somehow, would make things right between them. But he could not go until he was sure England had been healed, its borders safe and Richard safely contained.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why would I agree to that?’

‘You want to trust me,’ Rutland said. ‘I want to trust you and I can’t. Not without seeing Richard and knowing that he’s safe.’

‘He is safe.’

‘I need to see him.’

‘Why?’ Henry said. ‘You may write to him if you like and I will see it is sent to him. He may reply if it pleases him to do so – but I doubt it will.’

‘You would read it.’

‘Of course I would,’ Henry said. ‘Why shouldn’t I? He called you _brother –_ of course your loyalty is in question. Of course I won’t let you see him.’

‘My father—’

‘Agrees with me.’

‘ _What_?’

Rutland’s outrage and shock were almost comical to watch. Henry smiled despite himself, flicked his eyes down to the pages of accounts in front of him to hide it.

‘Look,’ Henry said. ‘I will confirm that you have retained custody of the Channel Islands _and_ possession of the Isle of Wight. In time, if we are satisfied with your loyalty, then you will advance in our favour. But until then, I will follow the Duke of York’s advice on how to treat with you.’

‘But,’ Rutland said. ‘I need to see Richard. I need to speak with him—’

‘About what?’

Rutland stopped, mouth opening and closing. His face flushed, his eyes jerked away from Henry’s steadfast gaze. He was panicked but not willing to share what made him panic.

‘I – _worry_ about him,’ Rutland said. ‘Being on his own. After all this. His heart might not take it – he has had a lot of grief in his life and I wish to, to tell him that he is not – not on his own.’

Henry nodded, brows raised. He didn’t believe it. It was plausible, of course, but Rutland was holding something back.

‘As I said, you can write a letter,’ Henry said. ‘And I assure you, Richard may no longer be a king but he is being cared for.’

‘As your prisoner,’ Rutland said, expression turning surly.

‘Yes,’ Henry said. ‘Was there anything else? I have quite a lot to do.’

Again, the hesitation. Rutland’s eyes darted around the room. He was sweating. But he shook his head and bowed. Henry bent his head down, peered at the accounts he was meant to be scrutinising and rubbed his fingers over his brow. He hated looking at money – Mary had always taken care of that and, when she had died, one of his father’s clerks. Maybe he should marry again. He thought of Joanna in Brittany and smiled.

‘You may go, then,’ Henry said. ‘Oh – I take it you will be there at Christmas? I hope it will be a time for us all to reconcile and heal old wounds.’

Rutland froze in the middle of his bow, eyes jerking up to meet Henry’s. ‘I will, your grace,’ he said.

After he left, Henry kept staring at the accounts. It could wait. He could go and see his daughters, he thought, and make sure they, at least, were content.

*

Hal collapsed onto the grass, panting, and groaned as John and Humphrey all but fell on top of him. It was a warm day for November and his father had complained he was spending too much time inside – _at his lessons_ – and since he had refused to go hunting, he had – more or less – ordered Hal to _spend some time with_ his brothers. And even though Hal hated to admit it, since it proved Henry right, it had been good to be outside with his brothers. They had explored the grounds as if they were small children again and then played tennis until they were hot and exhausted.

‘I _still_ say that you cheated,’ Thomas said.

‘Give it up,’ Hal said. ‘We beat you three times.’

‘I haven’t worked it out yet but I will.’

‘Harry doesn’t cheat,’ Humphrey said stoutly.

‘At least not when you can catch him at it,’ John muttered.

Hal poked him. ‘You’re not helping.’

‘I wasn’t trying to,’ John said.

But he hugged Hal, suddenly and tightly, and pressed his face against Hal’s shoulder. Humphrey copied him a moment later. Hal was suddenly guilty. It had been a long time since they had been all together like this – without the constraints of formality or watchful eyes. He had neglected them, he supposed, preferring to nurse his hurts alone. He hugged them both tightly, glancing up as Thomas rolled his eyes and dropped down beside. He picked at the grass, tearing up a handful before letting it fall. It seemed absurdly green.

‘John’s loyal to me,’ Thomas said.

‘No,’ John said. ‘I’m just fair. And honest.’

Humphrey snorted. John punched him in the shoulder and Humphrey shoved him back. Outraged, John scrambled to his feet to strike Humphrey. Hal opened his mouth – this was new.

‘If you two fight, I’ll stick your heads down the long drop,’ Thomas said, with half-slitted eyes that spoke of bored familiarity.

‘You couldn’t catch us,’ John said.

‘Care to wager on that?’ Thomas said.

‘Not both of us.’

‘Harry will catch the other one.’

‘But _Harry_ won’t put our heads down the long drop,’ Humphrey said with reckless optimism.

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Hal said. ‘It’s very tempting when you’re fighting like this.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t say I’m a liar—’

‘I didn’t!’

Hal looked across at Thomas, rolling his eyes. Thomas grinned, reaching out to grab Humphrey around the waist and hoist him up. Humphrey cried out, face creasing, and Hal grabbed hold of John before he could make good his escape.

‘No!’

'We told you to stop,’ Hal said. ‘But you wouldn’t.’

John howled, struggling wildly. Hal held on tight, gritting his teeth against John’s heels drumming wildly against his shins. He was actually quite strong. Thomas had known what he was doing, grabbing Humphrey who was much lighter and less likely to struggle.

‘Your grace,’ a voice said coolly.

Hal dropped John and turned. One of the clerks was looking at him, nose wrinkling. Hal felt very aware that he was still sweaty and filthy from their tennis game. He hastily brushed down his clothes, sure there was still grass, twigs and leaves stuck all over him. Thomas set Humphrey on the ground, keeping an arm looped over his chest.

‘Yes?’

‘The Earl of Rutland would like to speak to you.’

The clerk gestured across the lawn. Hal saw Rutland standing beneath the archway and bit his lip. He didn’t _want_ to speak to Rutland, not when he was so confused about what had happened and Rutland’s role in it. But he wasn’t sure if he _could_ refuse – he was, as Prince of Wales, Rutland’s superior but it had been clear that the title did not actually grant him much in the way of superiority when he was still _too young._

‘What, now?’ he said.

‘I believe so, your grace,’ the clerk said.

‘Right, then.’

‘Harry, no,’ John whispered.

Hal clapped him on the back and followed the clerk over the edge of the courtyard, where Rutland waited for beneath an archway leading back inside the castle. He was looked somewhat harried. Hal slowed – Rutland _did_ know that he didn’t actually have any sway with his father or anyone else?

‘Hal,’ Rutland said, then quickly bowed and added, ‘Your grace.’

Hal nodded, not sure what he was supposed to call Rutland. _Ned_ seemed too informal and by the way Rutland had corrected himself to _your grace,_ it seemed like Rutland wanted this to be formal.

‘My lord of Rutland,’ he said. ‘I was playing tennis, so forgive—’

‘No, I know,’ Rutland said. ‘I just – wanted to see how you are.’

‘Me?’ Hal said. ‘Fine. I’ll be going to Wales in the new year with Worcester. Hotspur too, apparently – though I suspect the plans for Scotland might call him back sooner than me.’

‘Right,’ Rutland said, looking as if he wasn’t listening.

Hal swatted a fly away from his face, wondering what it was that Rutland _wanted._ He didn’t even know Rutland had come to Westminster.

‘And – are you alright?’ Hal said.

‘Yes. Perfectly.’ Rutland looked around and then reached out, digging his fingers into Hal’s arm. ‘Listen. Don’t tell anyone – not this, not _anyone,_ do you understand? But if things… go bad for your father—’

‘What do you mean, go bad?’ Hal said. Worry began to squirm in his stomach.

‘Oh,’ Rutland said. ‘Um. You know – just bad.’

‘No, I don’t know,’ Hal said. ‘Everyone assumes I know everything or nothing. Do you mean – like what happened to Richard?’

‘No!’ Rutland said, eyes going wide and hands flying up. ‘No, no, not – not _that._ Just… bad.’

‘Right,’ Hal said, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘If things go bad, then – seek Sanctuary. Take your brothers. Trust no one.’

‘I already know to do that.’

‘I just mean – look, I want you to be safe.’

‘Alright,’ Hal said slowly, still bewildered. ‘I’ll remember that.’

Rutland nodded but he seemed reluctant to leave. Hal’s sweat was rapidly cooling, he felt distinctly cold. He wondered if he and Thomas would still try to wrestle their younger brothers to the long drop or if they’d have another game of tennis. But it was getting close to their dinner.

‘I didn’t have a choice,’ Rutland said, very quietly, ‘about betraying Richard. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Does it matter?’ Hal said. ‘It’s done. We all have to live with it.’

‘I would hate for you to think—’

‘Harry!’

Whatever Rutland was going to say was cut off by Blanche’s cry. Hal turned and grinned at her and Pippa, standing hand-in-hand by the doorway leading into the castle. Their ladies fluttered around them, trying to shush them.

‘Papa says we’re having dinner soon,’ Blanche said. ‘So you’ve got to come in and get washed.’

‘Of course,’ Hal said. ‘You want to tell the other lumps?’

Blanche went but Pippa raced across to grab hold of his hand. He picked her up, held her against his hip and turned back to Rutland who seemed suddenly pale.

Are you alright?’

‘Fine,’ Rutland said, in a strained voice. ‘I just – forget how young you all are.’

‘I’m five,’ Pippa said proudly.

‘How many fingers is that?’ Hal said. Pippa held up her hand, five fingers stretched apart. He smiled. ‘Exactly right.’

‘I should go,’ Rutland said. ‘I’ve got to – get back tonight.’

‘You could stay,’ Hal said.

‘Yes,’ Rutland said. ‘But I don’t have anything with me and I don’t think your father wants me here so – I’ll go. Think about what I said, though.’

‘I will,’ Hal said, still bewildered.

He watched as Rutland walked away, aware of Pippa nuzzling into him. If he had spent little time with his brothers, he had also spent much less with his sisters. His mother would have been disappointed in him.

‘Harry,’ Pippa said. ‘You smell.’

*

Edward rode fast until Westminster and London were out of sight. His eyes swam with tears, he could feel them trickling down his cheeks into his beard. They were all _so young._ Edward had known it, of course – how could he not when Hal had spoken of them so often, when Hal was a child himself? – but it was one thing to know, another yet to see them for himself. Same as it was one thing to know Hal as an individual, separate from his family, and another yet to see him as an older brother.

He thought of Hal with his youngest sister, the ease at which he had spoken to and held her. Edward had never been like that with Constance, nor had he ever been as comfortable with his brother as Hal was with his.

He couldn’t do this, he thought, he couldn’t do this.

But it wasn’t as easy as that. If he gave up on the rebellion, refused to have anything more to do with it, Huntington would still go ahead. His inaction could not save Hal and his brothers from the axe, nor Hal’s sisters from being married off to the sons of their brothers’ murderers.

Edward slowed his horse, looked up into a wide sky. It was the end of November, soon winter would be there, but the sun was out and the day was neither warm nor cool. He felt himself to be at the cusp of something, caught between two worlds. Autumn, winter. Richard, Henry. Loyalty, betrayal.

If Henry had let him see Richard, he could have stopped this. Richard would have told him what to do and how to do it. But he was on his own, left to decide what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Joanna in Brittany** is none other than Joanna of Navarre, whom Henry married in 1403. He met her and her husband, John, Duke of Brittany, during his exile, and apparently hit it off with her. 
> 
> **Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester** – the uncle of Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy – was appointed Hal’s governor in 1399. He and Hotspur served in Wales with Hal until their rebellion in 1403.


	6. VI: Choices

**December 1399**

The room was warm. The fire burnt bright and the bed was heaped with blankets and furs, Yet Richard stayed where he was by the open window, gazing out. His jailers did not need to worry about his escape – he was being kept in one of the towers, nothing but a sheer, dizzying drop beneath his window. If he tried, as he had tried in the Tower of London, to make a rope from his sheets and lower himself down, he would find himself dangling a great distance from the ground.

The air was cold. His face was numb, he did not think he could speak if he wanted to. His eyelashes felt fringed with ice. But he did not take much notice. He knew that they had placed him in this room so that he would look out on the world he was kept from and see only the place where Edward II had executed the Earl of Lancaster in revenge for Piers Gaveston’s murder and sowed the seeds of his own end.

But soon Richard would be free. The Feast of the Epiphany was only weeks away – that was the date Despenser had suggested for their rising. Perhaps it would come earlier or later. Richard shivered. Perhaps it would not come at all, perhaps Henry had brought them to his side after all.

Richard heard so little here. Swynford did not come to speak to him and the servants spoke of banalities – the weather, the food – and professed to know nothing of the world outside, though once the boy who brought him his food talked about sheep for an hour. Richard had been desperate enough for conservation that he had actually listened and felt bereft when the boy didn’t bring him his food the next day.

He stepped back from the window, closed the shutters. Soon, he told himself, soon. He could not give up hope. He would not. Not yet.

*

John was gone again, she knew not where. He told her he was going to see Salisbury but had set out in the wrong direction. Elizabeth would not question him on it when he returned – he would only lie again. She went into his study, searched it and found nothing. She went to his room – they were sleeping separately again – and stood in its centre, looking around.

Some of part of her wanted her to stop as if she had the notion she was standing on a cliff and would fall if she did not turn back. But the truth lay on its crumbling edge. She wanted to know what John was doing, what he was keeping from her and why he had lied to her. If she knew, she would know whether she should worry or not.

If it was a woman, she knew how to handle it. Her father, after all, had taken mistresses. It would be painful but it wasn’t insurmountable. It wouldn’t even be that surprising – she knew John’s appetites, she knew he had avoided her bed of late. He could easily be hiding his adultery from her, thinking to spare her pain and throw off suspicion by lying to her. She would accept it if she knew but _she did not know._

Elizabeth went to his bed, pulled back the covers and laid down on the bed. She breathed in. The sheets smelt clean, nothing but the scent of soap lingering on them. She turned on her side, stared at the silk-covered pillows. There was no hair, no marks on them.

‘My lady?’ one of her maids said. ‘Are you well?’

Elizabeth closed her eyes, pushed herself up. ‘I am.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Is there gossip about my lord husband?’

The maid was too quiet.

‘Well?’

‘Only – only that he is often absent,’ she said, ‘and does not always go where he says he will, my lady.’

‘Where does he go then?’

‘I – I don’t know. I thought _you_ would.’

‘I don’t,’ Elizabeth said.

*

Despenser was due back from London soon. By the end of the day, Constance had said when she left Edward in the solar. She had not stayed to talk but left Edward with a jug of wine and plate of sweetmeats. His hand drifted towards the plate more than it ought to, a nervous tic. He wanted to put this to rest. Surely Despenser, out of anyone, would make them see reason where Edward had failed.

‘They won’t agree,’ Constance said quietly from the doorway. ‘You know this. The house of Lancaster is too strong.’

‘But—’

‘They’re children, I know,’ she said. ‘But they will grow up quickly. Even if Richard takes some or all of their lands – do you think they will be content with anything less than what they have now?’

‘No,’ Edward said. ‘But that’s a long way off and Richard knows Hal.’

‘And if Hal dies?’ Constance said, raising a brow. She pushed into the room and sat on the settle opposite Edward. ‘Oh, get that look off your face. I’m not suggesting we kill him. An illness could easily take him, or an accident.’

It was true but it still didn’t make it easy to think of. He opened his mouth, shut it.

‘The point is nothing is certain,’ she said. ‘And you know that we must question whether the risk is worth it. From all accounts, Henry’s second son is just like him.’

Edward shook his head. Hal had not said that. He had spoken fondly of his brothers, all of them, but warily of his father.

‘Or – do you think they will take kindly to his father’s death in Richard’s name?’ Constance said. ‘Or that they all will meekly accept that loss and the loss of their estate, and have nothing to do with those who would stir up rebellion against the true king?’

‘No,’ Edward said. ‘But—’

‘But we will put them in the care of loyal men and raise them to be true and meek men?’ Constance’s smile was mocking. ‘Kent is greedy, Salisbury is a heretic, you are too soft and Huntington will breed nothing but resentment in them.’

‘I am too soft?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It isn’t an easy choice, of course – I understand that. But you know it’s to keep Richard safe. You told me once that you’d do anything to keep him safe.’

‘I would,’ he said. ‘But this – they’re _children_.’

Constance sighed. ‘I know. We all know that.’

She stood up, her hands sliding over the red damask of her gown to rest on her belly. On her fingers were three emerald rings.

‘You have a choice, Edward,’ she said. ‘To keep your word – to protect Richard. _Our king._ The man that named you _brother._ Or to betray him. There’s no time for you to dither. You either do this, with us, or you do nothing.’

‘What?’ he said. ‘Do nothing? I can’t – I love him.’

‘Then why won’t you do what is necessary to protect him?’ she said.

Without waiting for a reply, she strode through the door. Edward dropped back into the chair, covering his face with his hands. He felt sick. There was no point, no point at all, in speaking to Despenser. Constance dominated him too well – he might express sympathy or even agree with Edward but as soon it was done, he would just do whatever Constance willed him to.

And she said Edward had to decide between Richard and Hal. He could not. He loved Richard – he had meant it when he said he would’ve done anything for Richard, anything to keep him safe. Had he not urged the death of Thomas of Woodstock for that very reason? Agreed to the Earl of Arundel’s execution, the exiles of Henry, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Norfolk? Anything to keep Richard safe, anything for Richard.

But those things had gone ill and it was one thing to execute a man for his known crimes and danger, another to slaughter four boys for a potential risk. And he _knew_ Hal. He knew Hal was loyal to Richard – had he not gone down on his knees without pleading for his life or for mercy when he had found out about Henry’s unlawful return? He knew Hal and loved him as the son he knew he would never have.

He sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair. If Henry had just let him _speak_ to Richard, he could have settled this. Huntington would not dare move against the children if Richard had expressly ordered him not to.

‘Constance said you were here,’ Despenser said.

He looked tired from the road, dust on his clothes. Edward said nothing. Despenser came in, stood by the hearth.

‘It’s not as bad as you think it is,’ Despenser said quietly.

‘I fail to see how.’

‘You know Constance. Anything for Richard.’

‘You’re not Constance, though,’ Edward said. ‘If you refuse, she will listen – and so will everyone else.’

Despenser laughed, covering his face with his hand. ‘Why, because I suddenly have a will of my own? I know what you think of me. Soft. Pliable. Weak. I am not the one dithering. You know Richard is terrified of what they will do to him. We need to save him.’

Edward didn’t want to talk about it anymore. ‘What is the news?’

‘I will not tell you unless I am sure of you,’ Despenser said. ‘Why should I?’

‘I need to play my part,’ Edward said. The words tasted vile on his tongue. ‘I need – it’s for Richard. Everything else can be dealt with – later.’

Despenser studied him, his eyes narrowed, assessing. Finally, he nodded.

*

John had returned. Elizabeth did not go to meet him but stayed in her solar with her clerk, working on the preparations for their visit to Windsor for Christmas. She ate supper there and retired to what had been their room but was now increasingly hers alone. John was waiting there for her, his eyes narrowed.

‘Where were you?’ he said.

‘Was there a reason to greet you?’ she said. ‘You lie to me, you shun my bed, you are ruled by your anger – and I am tired of it. I did not ask you to come to my room.’

He stepped forward, eyes flashing. She held out her arms, leaving herself open to attack, and he flinched. Only once had he come close to hitting her, thirteen or fourteen years ago, and then he, as of now, had been horrified by his own violence.

‘You are my wife.’

‘Am I?’ she said. ‘Is there not someone else you would rather carry to bed?’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘I would understand a mistress,’ she said. ‘I would accept it – how could I not? If I am mad, it is because of you.’

‘Me?’ he cried. ‘Me? I am not the one who makes merry at the downfall of my husband’s brother.’

So it was still about Richard. That hurt had not gone away nor had John’s anger lessened. Unless he was still lying to her.

‘Is this how it will be from now?’ she said. ‘I grieve for Richard, the same as you – but nothing is going to change. It’s done. Henry is the king.’

‘Richard was the king,’ John said. ‘If Henry has proved anything, it is that the crown is no surety. A king can be pulled down by those below him.’

Elizabeth raised her chin, staring at him. She felt cold all over – did he mean Henry? Was he threatening her brother? His eyes slid away from hers, his mouth stayed silent. Elizabeth hugged herself.

‘You want my brother dead?’

‘He wants mine dead,’ he said. ‘Though he would deny it. Richard is too unquiet a prisoner, a person for Henry to wish him well.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. Henry wouldn’t – not Richard.’

John sighed and shook his head. He seemed suddenly defeated and weary. He sunk onto the bed and hid his face behind his hands. She hesitated and then sat down beside him, putting a cautious arm around his shoulders.

‘I have to look after Richard,’ he said. ‘Our mother always fretted after him, you know that. It broke her heart when we were at odds. She made me promise – he’s my brother, my baby brother. And he doesn’t always have the best sense. I have to keep him safe.’

‘But he is safe.’

‘Not now,’ John said. ‘Not in Henry’s care. You should know better.’

Perhaps she should – her father had called her naïve and even dead his voice lingered in her ear. She could not believe it of Henry – he had always been her little brother, awkward and desperate to please their father.

‘I can speak to him, ask him if we might see Richard or – or something like that,’ she said. ‘Henry listened when I asked to see you.’

‘You can try,’ John said. ‘But you’ll be disappointed.’

He raised his head and stared at her. His face was pale and still as though it was carved from marble while his eyes were the only things that seemed alive on his face. Anger, pleading, grief – she could not name the emotion in them. She laid her hands on his face and kissed him, hoping that Henry would listen and all would be well.

*

Edward was frozen by indecision. He could not think. He took himself riding in the woods, spent too much with his dogs and exhausted himself. Still, he did not know what to do. He rode to the lake and dismounted, staring at the silvery water that was so still it seemed like glass. Even the willows did not seem to move in the breeze.

Constance was right. He would do anything for Richard. He had wanted Woodstock to die for that reason – he was a danger, he had hurt Richard grievously in the past and surely would again. All these years, all his life – Edward had lived to serve Richard. To make him happy. He loved Richard.

But this – this was four boys, the youngest nine and the eldest thirteen, dead. And he could not even fool himself into believing that Richard would want it. Huntington might be right, that they would prove too dangerous to Richard, but they were children and Richard would be horrified at the idea of their deaths. He wouldn’t ever forgive them.

The wind was picking up, the air like ice. Edward closed his eyes. He could not do nothing. Indecision and inaction would not change anything. He had to choose. Richard or Hal. A child or the true king. Loyalty or treason.

He walked back toward his horse, stopped to brace himself against a tree, the bark rough beneath his hands. The world swam before his eyes. He had to decide and the worst of it was that he felt there was no real choice at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **Earl of Salisbury** was accused by Thomas Walsingham of being a Lollard.


	7. VII: Revelations

**December 1399 – January 1400**

Henry breathed in. It was a cold Christmas but a clear one – the sky stretched out like a bolt of pure blue silk, scarcely a cloud stitched onto its expanse, and the sun was warm on the stone. The snow over the grounds was thin but his sons were taking full advantage of it. As Henry was sure Archbishop Arundel would inform him, it was not, perhaps, dignified for the Prince of Wales to be leaping around, chucking handfuls of snows or musing up his brothers’ hair, but it was a relief to see them so carefree and happy.

He had worried about Harry, who had seemed so sunk in melancholy that Henry had almost asked his own physician to treat Harry for an excess of black bile. But now Harry was himself again, stopping to let Humphrey clamber up on his back and running forward as Humphrey threw snow at Thomas. Yes. It wasn’t dignified, it wasn’t proper but they were children and this was their first Christmas together in two years.

A clerk cleared his throat. Henry sighed. He wanted to go down and join them but he was trapped by the business of kingship – his sister, Elizabeth, had arrived with her husband and children and promptly requested a meeting with him. Even now she was waiting. He couldn’t put her off much longer, not if all he was doing was watching his children.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Show her in.’

He turned his back on the view and waited. Elizabeth came in, her blue gown impeccable, and then knelt in a neat, graceful movement. He bade her rise and she stood, smoothing down her skirts.

‘I have a favour to ask of you,’ she said.

He was dreading that. ‘Yes?’

‘John – my husband – he’s worried about his brother. He wants to see Richard. To have assurances that he is well and in good spirits.’

Henry gritted his teeth. Not this again. ‘He may write to Sir Richard of Bordeaux if it pleases him and if pleases Sir Richard, he may write in return. The letters, of course, will be read to ensure they contain nothing treasonous.’

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, her mouth thinned. ‘You think we would speak treason?’

‘I cannot take the risk.’

‘Would you let John see his brother?’ she said.

‘ _No_ ,’ Henry said. ‘Are you mad? Do you think I don’t know how much Huntington would like to see everything I’ve achieved undone? That he wouldn’t think to steal Richard out of my hands and tear me down, send me back into exile – or worse?’

She went pale, her head shaking. ‘No. He wouldn’t hurt you. He knows – he knows you’re my brother. That I love you.’

That was embarrassing. Henry turned away from her. He could just glimpse Thomas pulling Humphrey off Harry’s back, rolling him into the snow.

‘If you give him nothing,’ she said, ‘he will continue being angry with you.’

‘His anger is not my responsibility,’ Henry said.

‘I know but – he is desperate,’ she said. ‘His mother made him promise to always look after Richard. He feels it sorely he cannot see him, cannot speak to him.’

‘As I said, he may write. And in time, if we see no danger in it, we might allow them to meet. But that will take time – and restraint on your husband’s part. But for now, we offer him friendship. If we are pleased with him, he will find some lands of his restored.’

‘We?’ she said, brow arching. ‘Oh, you think to speak like a king to your own blood. I know you, Henry. I remember you when you were small enough to have no words at all.’

‘Yet I am older now – and the king too,’ he said. ‘And so my speech will reflect that.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said, nose wrinkling. ‘You were always one for – pomp. Finery.’

It seemed like an insult to hear her say it but Henry could not work out why. He heard his sons shouting outside and his head suddenly ached with the noise.

‘And what lands? You’ve already given John’s Cornish lands to Hal.’

‘Hal?’ he said, raising his hand to rub at his brow. ‘ _Hal_?’

‘Your son, the Prince of Wales?’

‘His name is Harry.’

Elizabeth sighed heavily. He supposed she was pouting to get her own way but he had never fallen for it.

‘Harry then,’ she said. ‘But the point remains.’

‘There are other lands, other grants that we – I can make. But nothing undeserved. The commons wanted his blood and the blood of his fellows, I cannot give him too much too soon. Not when his loyalty is unproven.’

‘So you will give us nothing?’ she said. ‘Nothing but promises?’

‘No.’

*

John laughed at her when she told him what had happened. He sat down on the edge of their bed, fussing over the fastening of his shoe, and laughed so hard he nearly fell off. When he reached out, caught her hand and kissed it. She found herself smiling in spite of everything – at least, he had taken her defeat in good humour and not anger.

‘I told you,’ he said.

She huffed and pulled back from him. ‘Don’t boast.’

‘You were so certain he would give in.’

‘Please, stop.’

John laughed again, shaking his head and stood up. ‘Well, it is a pity. But I have things to do – _I_ am not waiting for Henry to decide I am worthy of his attention and generosity.’

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘What things?’

‘I can’t tell you. They will be a surprise.’

At the door, he looked back on her and it seemed that his face was carved from cold alabaster and his expression one of ardent regret. Then he smiled.

‘It is a shame, though, that it didn’t work,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect it would but – I would’ve liked it too.’

*

Thomas tucked his hands under his arms and huddled closer to the lamp he had set on the bench in the garden. It was a cold night, the wind howling through trees that seemed dead and snow beginning to fall. The children would like that – he remembered the glimpse he’d had of Henry’s children playing and his stomach lurched. He thought of his and Constance’s secret – their plan to spirit them away, keep them out of danger. It seemed risky to go up against Huntington, Kent and Salisbury but Richard would never allow children to be hurt.

‘God’s teeth, it’s cold,’ Salisbury grumbled. ‘Rutland’s not here yet.’

‘Sick,’ Thomas said. ‘He caught a chill.’

‘Not nerves?’

‘No.’

‘I thought he might – I mean, it’s not nice, what we’re going to do.’

Thomas shook his head. Betrayal. Treason. He didn’t particularly like Henry but he didn’t think he deserved to die. Of course, Richard had been right – Lancaster was too mighty, held too much influence and it had to be cut down to size. But it was a pity they hadn’t found a better way to deal with Henry.

‘Did you see them?’ Salisbury said. He sounded as if he might be sick. ‘The little mites. Their heads will be on spikes soon enough.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Thomas said. ‘If we do this, we can’t be obvious about it. Richard can’t know – he’d never forgive us. No. We take hold of the children, keep them somewhere quiet and then get rid of them. Poison, perhaps – something we can disguise as an illness. Plague, fever.’

He felt sick for even saying it though it wouldn’t happen. Henry’s sons would be in Constance’s care and she wouldn’t let them be touched. Still, Thomas wished he were preparing to leave England for a Crusade instead of preparing to rebel. Their hands would be blood-soaked – again – in Richard’s name whatever happened to the children. And it might go badly, turn ugly or they would be defeated and executed.

‘That’s a fair point,’ Salisbury was saying. ‘Little traitors they might be but they should be treated with all apparent gentleness.’

‘Right,’ Thomas said. He shivered again, looked up at the moon – it was nearly invisible, a thin crescent of light. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold to be out.’

He went to bed and Constance wrapped herself around him, murmuring about how cold he was. Her body felt like it was made of embers, her hands like hot coals on his chilled skin. He loved her, he thought, he could not bear to be without her.

*

‘Your grace.’

Hal groaned into his pillow. He wasn’t sure what time it was – noon? early afternoon? It was daylight at least and had been for some hours. He still felt queasy and weak, cramps still rippling through his belly, but at least his body had managed to stop purging itself. Something he and his father had eaten at the Christmas feast had been spoilt – probably the roasted boar’s head, since Humphrey and their sisters had been so disgusted by the sight of it that not even their father’s cajoling could manage to make them eat a slice and they hadn’t fallen sick.

‘Your grace,’ the voice said again, quiet but insistent.

‘Go away,’ Hal said and moved his head to glare blindly at the dark shape bent over him.

‘I’m sorry, your grace, but the Earl of Rutland is insistent he speak to you.’

‘Did you tell him I’m dying?’

‘…no, your grace, but he understands you have been ill and are still—’

Hal groaned again and got up, pulling a blanket from the bed to wrap around his shoulders. He followed the attendant out to the passageway where Rutland was waiting. Rutland turned and blanched, stepping towards Hal as if he might touch his face.

‘You look awful.’

Rutland looked awful too. He was pale and sweaty, shadows under his eyes. He’d been late to arrive for the celebrations – apparently, he’d caught a chill and hadn’t been up to travelling.

‘I’m sick,’ Hal said.

Rutland turned away, swore under his breath and then turned back. ‘Can you ride?’

‘What?’ Hal said. ‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

Rutland swore again, this time louder. Hal shivered and leant surreptitiously against the wall.

‘What about in a few days? Not long, mind, but – give you time to recover.’

‘I just want to go back to bed,’ Hal said.

‘I know but this is – listen to me, Hal – this is very important. Can you ride? Tomorrow, the day after next or so?’

Hal sighed and tried to think. It was very hard when he was so tired and all he wanted to do was to go back to his bed and hope to sleep. His belly spasmed again. He squeezed his eyes shut.

‘It’s very important.’

‘Why?’

Rutland’s mouth opened and shut. Hal remembered playing with one of the puppets he’d owned as a child, opening and shutting its mouth as he tried to think of it would say to the puppet on his father’s hand and, in the end, staying silent.

‘It’s – it just is,’ Rutland said. ‘Please, Hal.’

‘No,’ Hal said. ‘I can’t.’

‘Hal—’

‘Harry?’ John said.

He was moving down the passageway, his arm wrapped around his belly. He looked pale, his eyes like milky glass but his pace was steady. He’d only eaten a small piece of the boar’s head and only because Thomas had bullied him about it. Hal pushed past Rutland and wrapped an arm around John, drawing him close. John rested his head on Hal’s shoulder.

Rutland looked between them and then shook his head.

‘I’ll let you get some rest,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

Rutland was gone almost before the words had almost left Hal’s lips. He looked down John and squeezed him – he probably came because he was feeling lonely in his misery.

‘What he want?’

‘No idea,’ Hal said. ‘Come on, let’s lie down on the bed.’

*

Edward pushed open the door and sat down with his head in his hands. He had thought he’d found the solution – if he could get Hal and his brothers away, they would be safe while the rebellion happened and when Richard was returned, he would spare them. But Hal was obviously in no fit state to be travelling – he was barely able to make conversation – and neither were his brothers.

It was a flimsy plan anyway – he hadn’t even decided how much he would tell Hal and he would have been reliant on Hal to convince his brothers to come with them and stay quiet. And as Philippa had said, the rebellion would kill Hal’s father. Edward supposed he’d hoped that Hal wouldn’t realise that until it was too late and then, somehow, would manage to forgive Edward and Richard for it. But he might have realised and that could have ruined everything.

Now Edward was back to the old problem, the choice he had to make which was really no choice. If he told, he knew death would follow – his father had warned them of that. Henry had spared them once for the sake of reconciliation and reputation, he would not spare them a second time. And it would prove Richard was too dangerous to let live and Henry would have Richard quietly murdered.

But if Edward did nothing, if he continued to support the rebellion, death would still follow. Henry, his four sons and no doubt others. Those who had supported Henry – Northumberland, Cobham, Archbishop Arundel, perhaps even Edward’s own father – would no doubt be punished, likely executed. It would be necessary to ensure Richard’s safety.

Edward scrubbed his face. He tried to remember where Philippa was – some kind of performance, he thought. A mystery play – something to distract from the fact that the king (false king) had spent the night on the privy. She had told him that he should leave Hal out of it. But even she had agreed it was better than letting him be killed.

‘Richard,’ he said.

The room was quiet.

‘Richard, what should I do?’

There was still no answer. Edward got up, washed his face and hands. His stomach was churning again as if he might vomit. He knew, terrifying and terribly, what he would do. Four boys. Four children. They were young, their lives stretched out before them.

‘Richard,’ he said, ‘forgive me.’

And then he was angry, his nausea replaced with a fury that demanded he act on it. It shouldn’t have been left to him to decide, this shouldn’t be his fault.

‘What have you brought me to?’

*

‘Your grace,’ the Earl of Rutland said as he knelt before Henry.

Henry felt a small prick of unease. Ever since that failed interview, Rutland had kept his distance and his silence. Now he seemed unnaturally grave, still and foreboding. It had not passed Henry by that he and his sons’ illness on Christmas perhaps not the result of eating spoilt meat but an attempt to poison them – though it was impossible to know for sure.

‘What is it?’ Henry said.

The jousts had just finished, he needed to change for the evening mass. Whatever Rutland had to say, good or ill, would be better said sooner rather than later.

Rutland swallowed. He did not lift his head, staring down at the floor.

‘There is a plot,’ he said, ‘to kill you and your sons, and restore – restore Richard and his queen to the throne.’

Henry felt his blood turn to ice. His hands tightened into fists. But Rutland was hardly a trustworthy source – he was Richard’s creature, too close, too cloying. He could be merely trying to entrap Henry.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I am - was - part of it.’

‘Ah,’ Henry said. ‘So, having proven yourself traitor to Richard, you thought to betray me and instead – found betraying Richard suited your tastes better. I won’t reward you for this.’

‘I don’t ask for it,’ Rutland said, voice wavering. He looked up at Henry, tears streaked across his cheeks. ‘But please – please just do something.’

Henry turned his head, looked at Somerset. ‘My children. Gather them and their nurses and tutors, order them to be readied for a journey. Quickly. And then fetch John Cosyn.’

He waited until Somerset left and Rutland’s shoulders had slumped. Then Henry jerked forward, pulling Rutland up by his collar and slamming him against the wall.

‘Fair cousin,’ he said, deadly calm. ‘You have done nothing amiss – if you told the truth.’

‘I _did_ ,’ Rutland said.

‘If you have,’ Henry said, ‘I will pardon you. If I find you false, though, you will repent it.’

‘I already repent,’ Rutland said, almost defiant. ‘But I am telling you the truth. Kent, Salisbury, Huntington—’

‘Despenser.’

Rutland swallowed hard and nodded. ‘And him. Maudelyn. Merks. Sir Thomas Blount. Walden. Even the abbot of Westminster. They’re all part of it. I speak no lies.’

Henry released him and stepped back. Rutland slid down the wall, pulled his knees to his chest and began to weep. But Henry was already thinking, his mind spinning wildly. He believed Rutland – of course he had always suspected that the likes of Huntington, Kent, Despenser and Salisbury would not be content. But so soon in his reign, when he still started to see the crown waiting for him, when he still woke and in wonder felt his forehead and chest where he had been anointed – that was the surprise. That was what hurt.

But Henry could not waste time pondering the betrayal. He had to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are alternative narratives as to who spilled the beans about the Epiphany Rising. The most enduring one, thanks to Shakespeare, is found in the _Treason et Mort_ , where Edward, Earl of Rutland inadvertently betrays the plot to his father, York, who then forces him to confess to Henry. The dialogue between Henry and Rutland comes, in part, from the _Treason et Mort_ though I preferred to elide York from the story and make Rutland betray the plot on his own.
> 
> Some historians, such as James Tait, have doubted Rutland’s involvement in the plot and the _Continuatio Eulogii_ offers an alternative, where an unnamed member of the rebels’ household told a prostitute he was sleeping with of the plot and she passed that information to one of Henry’s household. Ian Mortimer has theorised that this story was a smokescreen for Rutland’s involvement. Some have suggested that Elizabeth of Lancaster might have passed on the plot. Both alternatives would make an excellent story. I even initially planned for Elizabeth to try and warn Henry of the plot but being dismissed as she didn’t have any details or evidence ¬– sadly, in the writing, Elizabeth didn’t get to that level of suspicion in time.


	8. VIII: Rebellion

**January 1400**

Elizabeth woke to John’s cursing. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the canopy above the bed, wondering what had upset him. He had been tense but in a better mood these past weeks and she had been too content to wonder what had changed, how it had changed. She sat up.

‘What is it?’

‘Henry’s gone,’ he said.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Rutland told.’

‘Told him what?’

John shook his head. ‘I need to go. I need to get to London.’

‘But the jousts,’ Elizabeth said. ‘The masque.’

‘Are you stupid? There will be no jousts,’ John said. ‘Henry _knows._ He’s gone. He’s raising an army as we speak.’

Elizabeth got up hurriedly. ‘What do you mean, an army? What’s happened?’

‘Henry found out,’ he said. ‘He knows – he knows what we’re planning. And he’ll stop us if he can.’

‘Stop you from what?’

‘The rebellion,’ John said. ‘We were going to get rid of Henry. Restore Richard, make him _safe._ But Rutland – that whoreson traitor – he _told._ He told and Henry ran. It’s going to be too late – Henry’s going to kill us all.’

‘You never told me.’

John shook his head. ‘Of course not. Why would I? You made merry when we were captured, when Henry was crowned – you don’t care.’

‘That’s not true. It’s not. I do care, I just – what good would it have done for me to have wept and cried out loud? It was done. It had to be done – I love Richard but Henry will be a better king.’

‘You really think that?’ John said. ‘You think Henry is wiser and fairer than Richard?’

He shook his head and went to the table where his gloves, belt and dagger waited for him. He opened his mouth to call for his esquire and instead she moved, taking up the belt and girding it around his waist. It didn’t matter what she thought, not at that moment. Whatever happened that day, he was her husband. She had chosen him for herself. She did not want John or Henry dead but she had chosen John.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Do what you must.’

His hand touched her chin, lifted her face. He kissed her briefly, chastely, and then he was gone.

*

They were in the hours between night and dawn where the sky had lightened from black to blue but the sun was yet to appear, the world cast into cold shadow. Hal stood huddled in his cloak next to Thomas, trying not to let on how tired he was. But Thomas gave in, his mouth opening wide, and Hal couldn’t hold back any longer. They’d ridden through the night to get to London and then had barely slept for the anxiety and excitement. Hal had closed his eyes at one moment and then Thomas was shaking him awake, telling him they had to speak to their father.

The men of Henry’s retinue were milling around, the mayor of London was there with his men as well – he was supposed to be taking charge of them while Henry was away. _Away._ Hal bit his lip. There was a rebellion against his father already, he barely understood the details – there hadn’t been _time_ to explain and they’d ridden so fast and silently that there hadn’t been any talk.

‘You’re with me, right?’ Thomas muttered.

‘With you on what?’ Hal said.

‘Going with Father. Fighting for him.’

Hal looked away. He didn’t know. He was tired, confused and frightened. He wanted to protect his family, he wanted to fight – and he was old enough, he’d been blooded in warfare in Ireland. But he didn’t want to have to choose sides again, he didn’t want to take up arms against _Richard._ One of the last things Richard had told him to do was to obey his father and he had. He had done it because Richard told him to, because it was easiest, but he didn’t want to have to choose sides again.

Thomas elbowed him hard and Hal shoved him back, glaring at him.

‘Are you scared? Is that it?’

_‘No.’_

‘You _are,_ you’re scared – was Ireland that bad?’

‘Apart from the part where we were starving in the woods?’ Hal said. ‘No.’

Even then, he hadn’t been properly afraid, Richard had ensured that he and the other boys were fed. It was when news came that Henry had returned that Hal had been _frightened._ He still felt an echo of that terror inside him, a squirming in his belly that told him that he could not forget, could not relax. Thomas couldn’t – didn’t – understand that.

‘Boys,’ their father said, clamping a hand on their shoulders. ‘You should be in bed.’

‘We’re coming with you,’ Thomas said.

‘Right,’ Hal said. ‘We can’t stay behind.’

Henry went white, he stared at Thomas for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. Hal bit his lip.

‘No,’ Henry said. ‘Absolutely not. You don’t understand, do you? I need you safe.’

‘But—’ Thomas said, furious.

‘No,’ Henry said.

‘Please,’ Hal said. ‘We want to help.’

Henry sighed heavily, jerked his head at the squire waiting for him who nodded and retreated. Henry knelt down in front of them.

‘You are helping,’ he said. ‘I can’t fight if I’m worried that you’re in danger. Knolles will look after you, he’s a good man. And – if anything happens, if the rebels come to London, Harry – you’ll know what to do.’

Hal opened his mouth, shut it.

‘Hold out for as long as you can,’ Henry said. ‘And if the worst comes—’

‘Claim sanctuary at Westminster?’ Hal said. It was what Rutland had told him to do.

Henry blinked, looked sick. ‘I was going to say seek terms and delay as long as you can. But, if the very worst should happen… yes.’

‘We can’t come with you?’ Thomas said. ‘I don’t want to stay behind, I don’t want to _hide._ ’

‘No,’ Henry said, sharply this time. ‘Absolutely not. Now, you can stay and watch us leave – or you can go back to bed.’

They stayed. It seemed to take no time at all before Henry embraced them for the last time and then he was gone. Thomas took a few steps after him and then stopped, shoulders slumping. Hal took his arm and, together, they climbed up to the top of the tallest tower where they watched Henry and his army leave. They didn’t move or speak until the sun had risen and there was nothing to see but light on the water and a stirring city.

‘He’ll be alright,’ Hal said. ‘We’ll be alright.’

He would go to the chapel and pray that he was right.

*

Elizabeth went to Lincoln, went to Katherine. She couldn’t think of what else to do and resorted to the instincts of childhood, of going to her governess who had soothed her girlish upsets and had loved her in place of a cold father and a dead mother. It was safe there – no would accuse _Katherine_ of being part of the rebellion. And it was comforting. Katherine needed only the shortest of explanations before she sent Elizabeth’s children to the gardens in the care of their nurses and then gave Elizabeth a cup of strong wine.

‘I didn’t know,’ Elizabeth said numbly. Her teeth chattered against the rim of the cup. ‘How could I not know? I suspected – something. I thought it was—’

She glanced up at Katherine, flushed. _A mistress._

‘He didn’t trust me.’

‘Or he thought it easier for you not to know so you would be torn between your husband and your brother,’ Katherine said.

Elizabeth shook her head. She knew why John had kept silent. She had danced and made merry at Henry’s coronation. He had thought she would betray him and tell Henry.

‘Well,’ Katherine said. ‘You know now.’

‘When it’s too late to do anything.’

Elizabeth slumped back in her chair. She wanted to feel safe but all she could think about was John leaving. If he came back, her brother would be dead and if Henry wasn’t dead, John would not come back.

‘All we can do is endure,’ Katherine said. ‘My poor girl.’

‘I am older, you know, that my mother ever was.’

‘I know,’ Katherine said.

Her voice was sad, she had loved Elizabeth’s mother too. Elizabeth raised her cup to her mouth, drank and then set the cup carefully down.

‘I keep thinking of what my father said when he found out about John and I,’ she said. ‘“You did this and so you must live with it to its bitter end” – and it is bitter.’

Katherine reached out, took Elizabeth’s hand. ‘But before it was bitter, it was sweet.’

*

It had gone badly, Thomas had to admit. It had gone very, very badly. They were all dead or prisoners. Except for Rutland and Rutland was their traitor, their Judas. When Henry had ridden against them, they’d fallen back to Cirencester only for the townspeople to rise against them. Thomas had escaped, Kent and Salisbury hadn’t. He hadn’t heard anything about Huntington, who’d gone to seize London but he wasn’t hopeful. If Huntington were still alive, he would be hiding or fleeing.

Thomas closed his eyes, rested his head against the mast. He was so tired. He hadn’t been sleeping, not sure when his men would turn against him. He could smell the salt air, hear the crash of waves. He didn’t like sailing much but he had no choice. He’d go to France. Maybe Constance and their children could come after him, maybe they’d make fresh plans to free Richard. Or maybe he would go on a crusade after all.

‘Where are you going, my lord?’ the captain said.

‘Abroad,’ Thomas said. ‘Somewhere safe.’

‘Ah,’ the captain said. ‘I don’t think so, my lord. I think I shall have to take you to Bristol.’

‘No,’ Thomas said, opening his eyes. ‘No, absolutely not – if you do, you will die.’

The captain smiled sympathetically, raised his hands to the sky. Thomas could hear men moving below, the clank of armour, the ring of a blade being drawn from a sheath. He felt his legs turn to water.

‘There’s no point you arguing about it, my lord,’ the captain said. ‘I have my orders.’

‘They come from a false king.’

‘My lord, they could come from any man. As long as he pays me, I care not.’

Thomas reached for his sword. Suddenly, there was a cry and men were surrounding him, their weapons raised – swords, axes, staffs. He fought, thrusting his blade in front of him, striking back. But there were too many – his men, his loyal men, were falling. Were dying. Because of him. He raised his sword, felt hands grabbing at him. One man fell back with a slash to his face but three more crowded in.

‘My lord,’ the captain said, infuriatingly calm. ‘There’s no need for this.’

He fought on. Didn’t stop until a blow cracked across his head and he was on his knees, the wooden deck swimming before his eyes. He hated being on a ship. His mouth opened, his sword was pulled from his hands and his arms wretched painfully behind his back. _Constance,_ he thought, _Constance._

*

‘Elizabeth,’ Katherine said. ‘There’s news.’

Elizabeth left her children and went down into Katherine’s solar. A man wearing the livery of the Countess of Hereford was waiting for her. He bowed to them but his gaze seemed direct, almost cocky. Katherine took Elizabeth’s hand, held it fast.

‘Your grace, my lady,’ the man said. ‘The Countess of Hereford and the Earl of Arundel wish you to know that the traitor, John, Earl of Huntington was executed on the ninth. His head was sent to the king.’

Elizabeth did not scream, she did not cry out. She could feel herself trembling all over. John was dead. John was dead. He was gone from the world. His anger, his love, his passions – gone. And she remained, she alone. She reached out with her free hand, touched the back of a chair and let it centre her. She was not even surprised – the rebellion had gone badly.

‘So,’ she said. ‘He did not escape.’

‘No, my lady.’

‘And Henry?’

‘He lives, my lady,’ he said. ‘He’s in Oxford, overseeing the trials.’

‘That my husband did not receive?’

The man hesitated a moment before he bowed his head. ‘There was such feeling against him and he – if you heard what he said to my lady, you would say it was a mercy that he lost his head alone.’

Elizabeth let out a shaky breath. Yes. She could see that. John would’ve been furious and the Countess of Hereford would be too tempting to resist. Her youngest daughter had been Henry’s wife, had been the mother of his children. Her grandson was the Prince of Wales and would inherit the throne after Henry. He would not have been prudent or restrained. He would have said whatever foul things he could think of to hurt her.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For bringing this to me.’

*

They were shouting outside the mayor of Bristol’s house. Thomas could hear them even when all the windows and doors were fastened shut or when he knelt in prayer. Knappe, the mayor, was always fussing, his round face pale and nervous. He would have preferred Thomas to be safely in France, whatever the cost, then in his house with the crowds outside.

A rock thudded against the shuttered windows. Knappe jumped and Thomas tensed. He’d written letters, begging for Henry’s intervention, but he couldn’t be sure that they were leaving the house, much less making it to Henry.

‘Bring out the traitor! Let him be put to death!’

Thomas pressed his face into his clasped hands, prayed harder. He wanted to be spared. Constance was pregnant – she hadn’t said anything to him, it was too early for that but he’d known – and if this mob dragged him out and killed him, it would hurt her.

‘Traitors!’

‘I can’t hold them off forever,’ Knappe said. ‘My men won’t fight for you and what’s the point of spilling blood to save yours when you’re destined for the block?’

Thomas said nothing. It was a fair point. He’d tried arguing with Knappe and tried promising the gift of jewels and riches he wasn’t sure he could promise if Knappe would help him away. Each time, Knappe had refused. All his hope rested in Henry intervening. Or Huntington making a miraculous victory from the ashes of their failure.

‘There’s no word from the king, is there?’ he said.

Even if there was, it would only delay the inevitable. The Duke of York had made it clear. No one would live if they betrayed Henry.

‘I’d have told you if there was.’

‘You are sending my letters?’

Knappe rolled his eyes. ‘My lord, my people can barely step outside our house without being abused by those outside. I do what I can but I can’t risk lives for yours.’

They went out into the garden. The gates were barred but men were pushing at them, shouting. The same thing, the same filth – they’d accused him of killing Woodstock’s poor son again. Thomas pulled at the furred sleeves of his gown of motley velvet, felt himself shivering. The air was bitterly cold, the gardens dead.

‘Now,’ Knappe called out. ‘This man is under my protection, waiting for the king’s men to take him into custody. He may be a traitor, he may be all the things you say he is – but I have a duty…’

A small stone whizzed past, struck Thomas on the cheek. He cried out, covered his cheek with his hand. The faces staring at him held such hate and anger. What had he done, he thought, to earn their hatred? He had tried to be a good lord, he had been a loyal friend to the king, he had loved his wife, he had tried to honour his ancestors and God. He had hurt no one unjustly, he had been a good subject. Why did they hate him so?

There was an enormous noise, shouting and splintering – the gate was giving away under the assault. He stepped back, turned to Knappe.

‘Do something!’

Knappe held his hands up. ‘Good people, please – he has asked to speak to the king, we owe him that—’

‘ _Traitor!_ Filth! Put him to death.’

Thomas reached for his sword but he had no sword, not even a knife. He backed away, turned to run back the house but a hand seized him by the back of his gown, another twisted in his hair, pushed him to the ground.

‘Death to traitors,’ they shouted.

He looked for Knappe, saw the mayor standing there, looking lost, and then let his head fall. He struggled against the hard bodies, fighting with whatever he could – nails, teeth, hands, feet. There were too many that were too strong and too angry. He wanted to live. He knew, somewhere, in his mind that it was over, that they were going to kill him. But he could not accept that. He wanted to live. He wanted to go home to Constance, hold her in his arms.

They dragged him to the cross that stood in the marketplace, forced him to his knees. There was a stump of an old tree. It smelt of fish. He stared at it, tried not to gag.

‘I’ve written to the king,’ he said. ‘He’ll be angry if you execute me without a trial.’

They forced him to his knees, forced his cheek against the block.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I haven’t confessed.’

‘You are a traitor,’ someone said and spat on him. ‘You’ll be burning whatever you confess.’

‘Please,’ he said.

He saw the shadow of the axe raised, felt the hands bite into his shoulders as he struggled. He closed his eyes. He was a Despenser, he thought, this was his lot. His great-grandfather had tried to starve himself to spoil his death for his executors but Thomas had only managed to plead for his life. He heard the axe swing down.

 _Constance,_ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brief mention of **Hal’s time in Ireland** owes much to Darren McGettigan’s _Richard II and the Irish Kings_. Ireland was where Henry V was first blooded in warfare. It isn’t clear whether Hal or Richard were with the army when they were trapped in the woods but it was too wonderful a story not to mention.
> 
>  **Despenser’s capture and death** based on the accounts in the _Vita Ricardi Secundi_ , though the allusions to Hugh Despenser the Younger’s execution are my own addition. Hugh Despenser the Younger reputedly attempted to starve himself to death rather than give Isabella of France the satisfaction of executing him. They, sadly, realised what he was doing.
> 
>  **Katherine Swynford** had been the governess of Elizabeth and her sister, Philippa, having already been one of Blanche of Lancaster’s ladies-in-waiting. It was conceivable to me that Elizabeth would reach out to Katherine for support. 
> 
> **Huntington’s death** is a scene I have clearly in my head but couldn’t find a way to include organically, as it would have necessitated adding a new POV to the story at such a late stage. Huntington was captured by a mob and, in one account, brought to the dowager Countess of Hereford and her nephew, the eighteen-year-old Thomas Fitzalan, newly restored to the earldom of Arundel. Huntington was then executed without a trial. Thomas Fitzalan was the son of the Earl of Arundel who had been executed in 1397, and had been the ward of Huntington (who appears to have mistreated him) before he escaped and joined his uncle, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in exile. The dowager Countess of Hereford was Joan Fitzalan, the mother of Eleanor and Mary de Bohun, and thus the mother-in-law of Thomas of Woodstock and Henry IV and the grandmother of their children.


	9. IX: Results

Thirty-one men had died. Twenty-seven had been executed at Oxford, four drawn, hung and quartered, the remaining twenty-three beheaded. Of the five noblemen that had led the rebellion, four had been lynched – Kent and Salisbury at Cirencester, Huntington at Pleshey and Despenser at Bristol – and their heads were spiked on London Bridge. The eyes, pecked out by birds, stared blindly out and did not see Henry looking at them.

The fifth rode at Henry’s side, the fifth had betrayed the rebellion. Henry was no fool; whatever reason Rutland had for betraying the rebellion, he knew it had nothing to do with him. Rutland’s loyalties couldn’t be relied upon; he would have to be watched.

Henry was almost sorry that he hadn’t brought Huntington, Salisbury, Despenser and Kent to trial. He’d received the letters Despenser had written him too late, had almost been moved to pity by the desperate slant of his hand. Of course, he quashed his pity. Treason was treason.

Still. Thirty-one men dead. It was an astoundingly bloodless number, all things considered. No battles and a rebellion cut short, Henry and his sons’ lives made safe. Time would tell if thirty-one lives were enough to pay for stability and peace.

His hands shook around the reins; he wanted to see them and to be able to touch them, take them in his arms. At least he had sent for Harry – when his son arrived, he would hold him, breathe in the scent of him and know he was safe.

*

‘God preserve our lord King Henry and our lord the Prince!’

Hal could not stop staring. He had lived in London for the past ten days and now its citizens were calling out to him, their faces at once joyous and beseeching, their hands outstretched. They had found flowers and sprigs of evergreen to throw down before their horses. They were _happy,_ he thought, they saw him as more than himself, as more than a boy. They saw him as something they owned, not as the Prince of Wales but as _their_ Prince of Wales.

He smiled back at them, reached out to take the branch of holly offered to him by a wimpled woman with a murmured thanks. Her cheeks turned red.

‘God save your grace!’ she said.

He nodded to her and turned back, his eyes going to London Bridge. His stomach dropped. He hadn’t seen them when he left the Tower, they’d taken him some other route out of the city to meet Henry. Now, for the first time, he saw them clearly – or their heads.

Kent had always tried to make Richard laugh and had teased Hal too. Salisbury had such a loud voice but such a gentle manner. Despenser had been kind to him, willing to help him without even a hint of dislike. And Huntington – well, he hadn’t liked Hal but he had loved Richard. They were all dead. They were all eyeless and rotting, bloodied. Hal felt his gorge rise.

‘Courage, Hal,’ Rutland said.

And what would happen to Richard, the man, the king, these men had risen and fought for? Hal let his eyes drop, stared into Henry’s back, the proud, straight line of it, and wondered.

*

His father, the Duke of York was pleased with him – Edward could count that as a triumph if he didn’t feel so wretched. After all the triumphant processions, the chants of _Te Deum_ and the gormless cheering, he was suddenly aware of what he had done. Thirty-one men were dead. Four children were living. Edward told himself that Richard would understand once he knew what Huntington and Kent had planned. He might even have ordered Edward to take the same path, have deemed the sacrifice worth it. Thirty-one men – and himself – for four boys.

It didn’t make Edward feel any better.

It had helped, seeing Henry’s children. Hal was growing up too quickly – already he looked more of a man than a boy – but the other seemed like colts and puppies, full of energy and stupidity. Too innocent to know how the world could bite. How hope was a useless, gnawing thing.

Philippa had understood. She had pressed a hand to Edward’s shoulder and then sent him out to his dogs. She had let him talk or stay silent, whatever he wanted. Not one word of complaint or condemnation passed her lips. She held him when he wept, when he railed against the world and the path that led him to treason, when he could not sleep.

He knew, somehow, that things would go on. One day followed another, after all. The old love he had for Richard remained but it was tense, mocking thing – _you’ve done this to him, you’ve killed him._ Because there was no way Henry would let Richard live now. There was no chance he could summon up new loyalty or love for Henry – he thought, for a moment, of Hal but it hurt too deeply to consider being _his_ loyal subject when it should be Richard he knelt before, Richard’s ring he kissed.

*

Out of duty, Edward went to see his sister who was staying with their father – it was Henry’s order that she be watched, just as the Countess of Kent was. He didn’t want to go – they had never been close. She had always been so wilful, so _difficult._ Now, too, she was a widow, she had lost the great love of her life and she would no doubt blame Edward for it.

He hadn’t wanted Despenser to die. He had cringed and shuddered when he was told how. He hadn’t wanted anyone to die.

Joan met him in her solar, her pretty face tired and drawn.

‘This is a terrible idea,’ she said. ‘You know that.’

He shuffled his feet, shrugged. ‘I know she blames me—’

‘Of course she does,’ Joan said. ‘Is that the only thing you can think of, your guilt, your fault in the matter?’

‘What else should I think?’ he said.

Joan shook her head, sat down in on the settle and covered her face. ‘She screamed when they told her. It was the most terrible thing I ever heard – she was like an animal that had been shot and left to carry around a ragged, bleeding wound until it dies. No. You should not be here.’

‘Where should I be then? She is my sister.’

Joan went on shaking her head. ‘She shouldn’t see you – she’ll say she will because she wants to tear you to pieces, she wants you to hurt as much as she does. But it’s not wise, not in her condition.’

‘I already hurt as much as she does,’ Edward said.

Joan let her head fall back, her veils spilling over the deep green of her dress. ‘No. No, you don’t. You betrayed him for a reason and that reason will give you comfort but Constance has nothing to comfort her.’

Edward shrugged and went to the door. ‘I’m here to see her and if she doesn’t want to see me, that’s fine – but it’s her choice.’

‘You should know she’s with child,’ Joan said. ‘That’s what I meant, _in her condition._ The midwife fears what will happen if she’s upset further.’

*

Constance was very pale. She sat in a chair by the hearth, her white hands clasped in her lap and Edward found himself studying her belly, swathed in the widow’s blacks she was wearing, for a sign of her pregnancy. There was none. It was too early, he supposed. Her face was almost the same colour as the wimple and veils she wore. Her eyes were like flames when they looked at him.

‘You – devil’s son,’ she said. ‘You will burn for this.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Edward said. It was true. He had done what he had to.

She lifted her proud, haughty face and turned away from him.

‘It wasn’t easy,’ Edward said.

‘Spare me,’ she said. ‘Why should I care how hard it was for you to betray us all? Richard _loved_ you, you said you loved _him._ I understand why you want to hurt me – you always have – but why couldn’t you have left Thomas alone?’

‘He chose this,’ Edward said. ‘I didn’t make him choose to rebel against Henry.’

‘Why shouldn’t he? Hereford is a usurper. He has no right to the throne. Not when Richard lives, not when the Mortimer boy lives.’

‘I know.’

Constance turned back to him, her brows very stark on her white face and her lips bitten raw. ‘I don’t care why. I won’t absolve you.’

‘Joan thinks you want to hurt me.’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Now I am not so sure.’

‘I couldn’t let the boys be killed,’ Edward said. ‘They’re children. You should have known that Richard would have never stood for it. He loved Hal.’

‘ _Hal,_ ’ she said. ‘You mean the Prince of Wales.’

Edward rolled his eyes. ‘He’s thirteen, he’s no threat to Richard.’

Constance made a sound like a sob and Edward stiffened. Joan had been right; he shouldn’t have come, he should’ve left her alone.

‘We were going to look after them,’ Constance said in a quiet, dead voice. ‘We were going to take them, hide them away – there was no point in fighting it. You should have known that. Huntington always does – always did ­­­­– what he said he would. There was never any point in arguing with him.’

‘But—’

‘So we pretended,’ she said. ‘All the time, making plans – and then _you_ spoilt it.’

Edward’s jaw dropped. He shook his head. No, no, _no._

‘Why didn’t you tell me – if I’d known, I wouldn’t have—’

‘Why would we trust you? You’ve always hated me, you’ve always tried to spite me,’ she said. ‘Why couldn’t you have told us what you were planning before it was too late?’

‘But—’

He said nothing. He felt like he had been struck with a poleaxe and fallen from a galloping horse. If he had known what they were planning, if he had told them – everything would have been so different. Henry would have been defeated but his sons kept safe, thirty-one men would not be dead and Richard – Richard would have been restored.

‘Constance…’

‘Get out,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand to look at you.

*

Henry sat by the hearth and thought about Mary. He had been thinking of her a lot, wondering what she would have said and done in the years since she passed. If, somehow, her living would have prevented all this. She had been the kind of wife that smoothed over quarrels and hurts. That kind of mother. When she had lived, their family seemed to _work_ better together. Thomas didn’t fight so much, Harry was easier to understand, John was less sulky and prone to tantrums, Humphrey wasn’t so spoilt. There was still something in Henry that could not quite forgive God for taking Mary from their daughters when they were too young to remember her – and for taking Mary from him.

He had thought he saw Mary on that terrible ride from Windsor to London but it had only been Harry, his short hair hidden by the raised hood of his cloak. Harry was so much like her, it was him that was her mirror – their daughters looked nothing like her but Harry was her like in looks and actions. If Harry had died, as the rebels wanted—

No. Henry must not think that. That way was the way of madness and paranoia, obsessing over something that was done and settled. Harry was fine. He had grown straight, his melancholy had turned to something else. He was alive.

Henry turned his eyes from the fire to the chessboard lying on the reeds. He had all his children in with him that afternoon, before it grew too late. Harry and John had laid on their bellies, playing chess. The game was half-finished. Black was winning. Henry couldn’t remember who had played what colour.

It reminded him of the problem with Richard. He had known it for a long time, could still hear Richard’s mocking voice in his ear, _do you not know that I am for the axe?_ Richard knew, when Henry had not, the threat he posed to Henry and his sons. Richard had known what Henry had to do before Henry could even fathom the possibility.

He didn’t want blood. He had been so careful about that. No executions, no battles, no war. Richard’s abdication had been bloodless. A cut too clean, too quick to bleed.

Thirty-one men dead. Not a great bloodletting but blood had been spilt none the less. And the next time – for there would be a next time. Richard had always been able to recuperate his losses – he would appear cowed and defeated, accepting his lot, while all the time gathering strength, making promises he had no intention of keeping. He’d done it before, throwing off the good government and counsel Henry and his fellow Lords Appellant had pressed him to accept.

Perhaps in Pontefract, he was safe. Contained. Swynford wouldn’t betray Henry. But there were others, outside of Pontefract, who would grow tired with Henry’s government and stir up malcontent. Who would use Richard as a tool to bring down Henry. And the next rebellion – perhaps Richard would have more men or better commanders. Perhaps it would succeed. Perhaps Henry would be made to kneel as Salisbury, Kent, Huntington and Despenser had, and place his head on the block and wait for the axe. Perhaps he would be made to look upon the heads of his murdered sons before he too was murdered.

As long as he lived, Richard remained a threat.

Henry straightened in his chair, called for one of his attendants and asked them to send him Loveney. He’d sent Bucton to Pontefract earlier, to do what was necessary if the rebellion looked likely to succeed. Bucton would still be there with Swynford, ready to perform this awful necessity as soon as Loveney brought the order.

*

‘Harry,’ Henry said.

He was bent over his desk, his head bare – Hal could see where his hair was beginning to thin on the crown of his head. Hal shifted on his feet, fidgeted. He’d just finished his lessons and was half-way out to go riding with his brothers when Henry had summoned him. No reason had been given.

Henry looked up at him at last. Dark shadows were under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept and Hal realised he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

‘Are you – well?’ he blurted out.

Henry blinked. ‘Yes. Fine. Well, almost fine. I’ve just settled what needed to be settled.’

He smiled, it looked like a grimace. He got up from his chair, went around and touched Hal’s cheek, his hand clammy and cold. Hal had to make himself not back away. There was something wrong. What his father mean, _settled what needed to be settled_?

‘What – what do you mean?’ Hal said.

‘Nothing of importance,’ Henry said. ‘Only what needs to be done. You’ll understand when you’re older, of course.’

Hal was sick of being treated as a child. They all said he was one but it suited them fine to make him ride in their processions, be crowned as Prince of Wales, sit in parliament and add his name to everything his father wanted. Hal raised his eyes, studied Henry’s face. Well, if he wanted Hal to be a child still, Hal would act like one.

He cocked his head to the side, smiled. ‘Is that all? Only, I promised the others I wouldn’t be long – we’re going riding.’

Henry blinked rapidly, stepped back. His hand fell to his side like it was suddenly too heavy. He nodded and Hal left, glad to leave that cold room and head out into the sun, the grass pale beneath the layer of fine snow.

‘You’re late,’ John said.

Hal pulled a face. ‘You could’ve gone without me.’

‘As if these lumps would,’ Thomas said, wrapping an arm around John and Humphrey despite their protests. Hal laughed, sprinting the last few steps to throw his arms around his brothers.

*

Richard laid his hands flat on the table. _This is real,_ he thought, _and I am real._ His fingers seemed diminished, a pale band where the signet ring had once sat. His hands felt too light, his body insubstantial. The room was cold, despite the fire burning in the grate, despite the blankets and furs lying heaped on the bed. He had the sensation there was a tight band of gold around his brow, burning like ice.

When he raised his head, he avoided the watchful eyes of his jailers. He had wept and screamed in front of them when the news came. His brother - dead. His nephew - dead. His cousins - dead. His friends - dead. Henry was victorious and Rutland a traitor. Richard had loved Rutland. He had once called him his brother, had even spoken of making Rutland his heir because he alone was the winding cloth he could love.

Well. Not the only one. Not now Hal was Prince of Wales. He loved Hal. He loved him with a simplicity he thought was like fatherhood. He wanted Hal to be well, he wanted Hal to be happy. Now, he knelt each day before a wooden crucifix, the body of Christ made in copper, and prayed that Hal would be a happy king, a good king, and would never know the crushing weight. How the crown’s band could squeeze so tight that it was all Richard could do not to claw at it.

Part of him had always wanted to give it up. When he was nine, watching his father fight for breath, his screams coming through gritted, jagged teeth. When he was ten and felt all the history, all the ceremony being set on his head. That terrible weight. When he was fourteen and trying to make peace with rebels and being made to undo all his promises and watch men he had tried to help be executed. When Robert had fled, when Burley had been murdered, when Anne had died.

But he did not know what he was without the crown. Who was he if he was not Richard II of England? If he was not the king?

It wouldn’t be for long, though. He had known, well before Henry had broken his promises and usurped the crown. No deposed king lived for long. The failed rebellion would be the nudge Henry needed – he was always squeamish except when it mattered.

Richard retreated to the bed. He wondered how Henry would do it. If he would specify a method or leave it up to his servants to decide. Outside, the wind was roaring and the sun was failing. Soon, his jailers would be bringing him his supper. He wrapped himself in the blankets and furs, pressed himself into the corner to wait. No one came but he heard voices in the corridor outside the locked door, a pause and then feet walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Henry’s procession through London** while being greeted with the cry of “God preserve our lord King Henry and our lord the Prince!” did happen. The mention of the Prince – who could only be Hal, as the Prince of Wales – sent me on a spiral of wondering why Hal was being mentioned. Had he been involved in Henry’s attempt to put down the rebellion, either having ridden with Henry from the beginning or having attended the trials in Oxford in which twenty-seven men were executed for their part in the rebellion. I couldn’t find reference to Hal having been part of Henry’s moves against the rebellion besides a broad reference to Henry’s children being left in the Tower of London and went with the simplest solution – that Hal had taken part in the procession but not anything else.
> 
>  **Peter Bucton** (or Buxton) was an old friend of Henry, having been on crusade with him and served as his steward. Ian Mortimer has speculated that his name may have been corrupted to Piers Exton, the man _The Betrayal and Death of Richard II_ credits with Richard’s death. Mortimer’s reconstruction of events, which I have followed, has Henry ordering Bucton to go to Pontefract and be prepared to kill Richard if necessary on January 6 and then sending a man, William Loveney, to order Richard’s death in early February. 
> 
> **Constance gave birth to a daughter, Isabella, on 26 July 1400** , meaning the child – if carried to term – would have been conceived in November 1399. Isabella would ultimately become her father’s heir after her other siblings died. Constance did not marry again, though she had an affair with Edmund Holland, Earl of Kent, and gave birth to a daughter, Eleanor, sometime before 1407. It seems possible that Constance and Edmund intended to marry but Constance’s involvement in the 1405 plot against Henry prevented the marriage from taking place.
> 
> I borrowed the reference to Rutland as “the winding cloth Richard could love” comes from an essay by Michael Bennett where he discusses Richard’s issues with his heirs, describing them as his “winding cloths”. 
> 
> **Richard II died around 14 February 1400** , most likely due to enforced starvation on the orders of Henry. While – as Richard suggests – it is likely that Henry would’ve had always had Richard killed, the Epiphany Rising probably caused Henry to order his death sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> I won't include a list of sources I consulted because it'd be super long. The most useful were the biographies of Richard II by Nigel Saul and Kathryn Warner, the biographies of Henry IV by Ian Mortimer and Chris Given-Wilson, Michael Bennett's _Richard II and the Revolution of 1399_ , the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography and, most helpfully, Chris Given-Wilson's edited collection, _Chronicles of the Revolution 1397-1400: The Reign of Richard II_.


End file.
